Of Wolf and Man
by Clez
Summary: Tom Sawyer’s curiosity gets him into deep trouble, and this time, it’s possible even the League won’t be able to save him.
1. Dig Your Own Hole

**Author's Note:** Yes, yes… you do really see a new story… le sigh, right? Yeah, I know, I'm awful. Sorry? But hey, it's inspiration. I _am_ going to work on my other stories, but this one? I couldn't fight the inspiration any longer, so I had to write it, before it made my head explode or something equally as… counterproductive. A warning now though; it's going to be dark, and violent, and… well, I'd say it's going to be angsty, but if you've ever read one of my stories before, you wouldn't expect anything less, right? XD As usual, this will get its own mailing list; if you don't want to be added automatically, tell me in a review — if you _do_ want to be added but don't have an email displayed in your profile (or if you don't have an account registered), supply me with an email, and you'll be added for update alerts.

This is for the community _fanfic100_ on livejournal, and each chapter will revolve around a prompt from the challenge; this is prompt #34: 'Not Enough'.

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**CHAPTER ONE: DIG YOUR OWN HOLE**

The air was thick with blood, and even though his senses were no stronger than any other human's, he knew it was there… even though he was no vampire, he could smell it; practically taste it for the sheer magnitude of it within the walls. All the same, he kept his breathing steady, trying to adjust his eyes to the poor lighting provided by cracked lamps or hastily placed candles. The flames flickered as he moved past them, casting eerie shadows across the dirty walls and grimy floors, the boards creaking almost as if in pain as he moved. He paused warily whenever they groaned, and listened for any signs that he'd been overheard. For all he knew, the one he'd killed outside hadn't been alone.

His heart beat heavily against his ribcage, and he swallowed dryly, seeing a bloody handprint smeared against a doorframe. As quietly as possible, he armed the rifle in his hands, using his thumb to pull back on the hammer rather than using the lever. He had counted the ammo he'd spent; he had four shots left in the rifle… he'd had to use more than he usually would to kill the creature outside. It was only his aim that had saved his life; four shots through the heart and brain had downed the… whatever it was. A friend's words flittered once more through his brain, and he felt a shiver run up his spine under his clothes.

Had that really been a werewolf?

Special Agent Tom Sawyer had always thought only silver bullets could kill a werewolf. Then again, he'd been wrong before, hadn't he?

His breath caught in his chest when he saw more blood streaked across the wall of a particularly dilapidated hallway, with peeling plaster and holes along the bottoms of the walls, no doubt where vermin and all manner of insects dwelled and lurked. A pungent smell drifted to him as he approached the doorway, and his stomach lurched impressively. Holding back the urge to retch, he approached, cursing his arms for their slight but definite shake. Trying to tell himself he wasn't afraid of what he might find wasn't working, he knew, but he had to at least keep a brave face. If that creature outside hadn't been alone, then he couldn't show his fear… fear was a weakness that would always be abused.

Stepping into the doorway, his green-hazel eyes searched the dimly illuminated room, resting upon a figure in the corner… or rather, what remained of that figure. The fight against his natural reactions nearly ended as he stared in horror and disgust at the remains, nearly unrecognisable as what had once been a human, and he struggled not to gag, or even outright vomit. Appalled, he closed his eyes, grimaced and turned his head away. Whoever they had once been — he couldn't even tell if it had been male or female — and whatever had happened to them, they were dead now… and had been for a while, from the smell. Naturally, Tom felt the familiar guilt build up inside of him, but he couldn't bring himself to look at the corpse again. It was all he could do not to bolt from the room as it was. He'd stared at the body long enough to see deep gouges in the broken torso, where blood had poured, and a vicious gash in their abdomen that had freed internal organs and intestines from within. The face had been torn and even clawed or _chewed_, and the skull had been split. Practically every inch of skin had been stained red with arterial blood, and grey matter from…

Tom doubled over, overcome by the smell and memory of what he'd seen, and he gagged, but managed to hold back anything else. It was a struggle, but he couldn't stay any longer… it wasn't safe. And he knew there was no way he'd be able to collect that body… he didn't have the strength or resolve to do it. He shook for a moment, and then pulled himself back to his feet properly, taking in a breath through his mouth to try and save himself from taking in the stench again. The rifle, still armed and ready to fire, hung in his right hand, gripped by slightly shaky fingers. Tom didn't open his eyes until he knew he wouldn't see the remains, turning his head back towards the doorway to do so.

The American Secret Service agent nearly leapt back in surprise and even fear, greeted not only by a face at close proximity, but intense, bright amber eyes. Not human eyes. _Wolf_ eyes.

"Sh—" He broke off his curse, and lifted the rifle quickly to fire. Even as he was squeezing the trigger, the tall, olive-skinned man snatched out with a hand, grabbing the barrel of the Winchester before wrenching it to the side. The bullet went painfully wide, blasting into the doorframe, and Tom cursed again, glancing to the face of the seemingly-older man. His somewhat oily black hair was fastened at the nape of his neck with a rough tie, and his dark clothing had helped him loom in the shadows out of sight. He flashed a predatory grin, edged with malicious intent, and the American saw the too-sharp incisors as they were bared. He, to the spy's surprise, released the rifle's barrel, only to duck with preternatural speed and grace when it whirled on him again. The sound of the shot was too loud in the filthy room, and Tom winced, swinging the butt of the large gun around at the man — or rather, _werewolf _— as he stood to his full height again. He ducked agilely backwards, chuckling as he did so, quirking a brow in an almost goading manner. Tom lifted the gun to fire again, and then stopped himself; he was wasting his bullets. And he only had two left…

In the _rifle_ that was.

Swinging the Winchester out as wide as he could, he saw his opponent leap back with ease, before letting the rifle clatter to the floor. Without hesitation, he tore his Colts from his waist, and turned them both on the enemy, pulling the triggers.

A roar filled the room as one of the bullets slammed the werewolf in the chest, to the right below his shoulder, and blood sprayed colourfully from beneath his perforated black shirt. He snarled loudly, and his eyes flashed again. Tom didn't stop; holding his ground, he kept pulling the triggers, only hearing the shattering of glass when it was too late to react properly.

A strong hand wearing a grimy fingerless glove locked powerfully around Tom's left arm, and tore it back and around. The six-shooter from that hand fell to the floor as the spy gave a yell in reaction to the wrenching of his arm, and he managed one more shot with his right before it was grabbed in the same way. He heard a deep, rumbling laugh from behind his left ear, hot breath playing through his dishevelled blonde hair, even as the first, wounded werewolf realised the threat of bullets had passed. With a murderous expression, he righted himself, apparently no longer pained by the bullets that had entered his body. He stalked forward with intent, eyes locked on the agent's face.

Tom gave nothing away, and even with his arms clamped behind him, he wasn't about to go down without a fight. The Hispanic-looking werewolf approached, but didn't see the young man's attack until it was slamming him in the chest, in the form of two solidly booted feet. Even with the awkward, dull pain of his arms being held behind his back by the second — he assumed — werewolf, Tom had heaved himself up in their grip, and kicked forcefully outwards with both legs. His attack knocked the first enemy away, and sprawled him messily across the floor. Wasting no time, he threw his head back, knowing it would hurt even as it cracked against his captor's. Giving a muffled yell, the werewolf released the agent, and stumbled back.

Whirling, Tom saw his second, ambushing opponent. A burly man with a good few inches on the spy, he had dark hair, and close-cut facial hair, with dark eyes and expression to match. His tight muscles were barely hidden beneath a thin shirt and dark pants, and the grubby gloves on his hands were stained with what Tom could only conclude was blood. Both men seemed unarmed, so as long as he only had to deal with one at a time, he stood a chance. It was a _slim_ chance, but a chance all the same.

Throwing caution to the wind, he lashed out with a fist, feeling it collide against the second opponent's jaw solidly. It snapped his head to the side, but otherwise didn't seem to faze him. It still provoked a growl though, and the large individual made a grab for Tom, who leapt back, nearly stumbling over his own dropped rifle. Turning to look over his shoulder hastily, he saw the first werewolf gathering himself to his feet, infuriated by the fall that had surely bruised his pride. As quickly as he could, even as the Hispanic man advanced, the agent grabbed his rifle, spinning it around as he brought it up, and then slamming it back. He was rewarded with a grunt and a telltale crunch as it made contact with the first opponent's face; probably his nose. In the blink of an eye, Tom had changed his grip, and was pulling the trigger.

The larger werewolf bellowed in pain and anger as the bullet tore through his torso, and he rocked with the force. Stumbling, he steadied himself against a bookcase built back into the wall, now only holding a few decaying volumes and probably its fair share of small creatures.

Only realising he'd underestimated the first opponent when the toe of a boot landed in the back of his knee, Tom gave a yell as he crumpled, unable to catch himself before his leg gave out on him. His hold on his rifle nearly gave out completely, but with a quick roll to his side, he avoided a vicious kick to his ribs, firing his last bullet up at the black-haired werewolf, whose eyes glowed fiercely. Tom missed his intended target of the head, but it did dig a bloody gouge through the werewolf's shoulder, throwing him back enough so that Tom could roll over onto his front. Casting the rifle aside now that he no longer had the time to reload, he saw his Colt pistols again, just behind the recovered second individual. Loud growls filled the room, reverberating in two different tones, but in united meaning; they weren't very happy.

Thinking quickly, Tom glanced up from the six-shooters to the thick-set werewolf in his way, and made a split-second decision; one that he might regret in a few moments, he knew. Scrambling to his feet, more or less, Tom hurtled forward, right towards the individual in his way.

It was like charging a wall; a padded wall, certainly, but a wall nevertheless. His impact barely made his opponent bat an eyelid, and with a snarl, he gripped both hands into the back of Tom's jacket tightly, before wrenching him around. The agent felt his feet leave the floor completely, and barely had time to even _try_ and right himself before he felt wood cave beneath his weight. Giving a rough yell as the bookcase splintered and buckled with the collision, he fought to land in some semblance of upright, but his legs rebelled, and he collapsed to the floor, badly winded and more than a little sore. Wincing heavily, he forced his palms downward, even as the last musty books from the crippled shelves fell to the floor, looking up towards the two werewolves.

Only to find they'd doubled since his up-close-and-personal introduction to the bookcase…

Another male stood behind the Hispanic one, his dark brown spiky hair giving him a fittingly feral look as his dark eyes took in the struggling form of the American agent. He smiled in an almost condescending, crooked manner, chuckling to himself as he tilted his head, perhaps curious. The other was also male, with dark skin and defining facial hair; his head was closely-shaved and near-black eyes stared down at him with a derisive but calculating quality.

_Shit_, Tom thought simply. Against two, he'd stood a weak chance, but four…?

"This kid giving you trouble, Felipe?" the spiky-haired male quipped in a cheeky, but cold manner, not even flinching under the icy gaze from the Hispanic werewolf by his side.

Tom should have known there wouldn't just be one.

The final male crouched in an almost catlike position, his eyes meeting Tom's even as they waned to an eerie, chilling blue. "I see you met our last little playmate…" The turn of his head drew Tom's gaze to the edge of the room, and he felt nausea rise up in him again. Somehow in the fighting, he'd forgotten all about the body. And now that he looked, closer to it from the struggling, he could see the arms were wrenched behind it at awkward angles, and bound with rough, tight rope. Tom's eyes turned back to the werewolves looming over him. How long had that poor man — or woman — been tied like that, and at the mercy of these creatures?

"Turns out he wasn't quite as brave as he made out to be in the beginning," the werewolf continued, still down in his crouch, with the other three males looking on. "All talk…" He offered the somewhat crumpled spy a grin, and Tom could see those cruel fangs again. "Seems like _you've_ got more fire, though."

_To hell with that_. Tom's mind snapped back into focus, the haze from slamming into the bookcase gone. With something not too unlike a growl of his own, he practically stumbled up from the floor, and collided bodily with the gloating man, who erupted with laughter. The others approached at once.

"No!" They were commanded away at once, even as a single, strong hand wrapped around Tom's throat, choking him enough to keep him from lashing out. Grabbing at the hand, he coughed weakly, trying to break the fingers away from his neck. "No, I think I'll give the kid a chance; see what he's made of for myself."

Even while he was steadily choking, Tom noticed the air of authority and leadership surrounding the darker-skinned male, despite his not being the largest; that right belonged the gloved individual closest to them, who bore the bloody evidence of the spy's struggle. Nevertheless, the other three moved away, back to the edges of the room to give their leader — or whatever he was — room to do as he wished. He made a shoving motion with his choking hand, and Tom rolled away awkwardly, landing on his back to cough hoarsely for a few moments, before remembering the danger he was in. Groaning lightly, he pulled himself to his knees, and then forced himself to stand.

"Try not to kill him, Julius," the one who had been identified as Felipe interrupted gruffly from the side of the room, with a lilt to his voice that confirmed Tom's suspicions as to his origins. "We all want our… _fun_." On the last word, he turned those amber eyes on the spy, and scowled; Tom did his best to ignore the intent, even as Julius laughed quietly.

Maybe if Tom delayed long enough, the rest of the _League of Extraordinary Gentlemen_ would intervene, and for all intents and purposes, save the day. He couldn't handle this one alone; he could be cocky, but he wasn't deluded. If he was reading the four werewolves' behaviour right, this Julius was the oldest of the four, and clearly some kind of leader… which meant he had experience. And power.

Shocking blue eyes, more icy and vivid even than Mina Harker's, regarded him impatiently; Tom realised, meeting that gaze, that he wouldn't be able to delay… if he didn't defend himself and fight back, then he'd end up like the mangled remains to the side of the room. Even as he braced his body, he realised what — or rather _who _— he must have killed outside… he'd killed one of them.

_No wonder they're so angry_, he thought, glancing briefly to the others.

He only realised he'd left himself wide open for attack when the complete weight of Julius' body slammed into his, winding him thoroughly, and driving him right back into the wall with enough force for the plaster to crack and crumble. Some of the debris fell around them as the dark werewolf pulled back, grinning triumphantly as Tom nearly buckled again. His ribcage burned fiercely, and it ached to breathe. His eyes watered from the sheer force with which he'd hit the wall, and a strangled gasp left his mouth.

"Show me what you've got, kid…" Julius taunted in a low voice, hunkered down almost, as if he were ready to pounce. Tom strained his eyes to look at him, panting; he already felt exhausted, and he hadn't even landed a blow on the opponent yet.

He was in trouble.

_Fight him_, his brain commanded desperately. _Fight him, or you'll die._ He winced heavily, and gave his head a brisk shake, forcing his legs to hold him up properly again. _Then again, you'll probably die if you **do** fight him…_

The only thing that brought Tom back to his feet and made him ready himself to actually fight was the idea of being killed on his knees… he wouldn't die like that. He wanted to be fighting; if he had to die, then he would do it on his feet.

Blocking the other werewolves from his mind, he focused only on Julius, and his motions. For the most part, the other fighter was still, seemingly frozen with anticipation of his human opponent's attack. Collecting himself, Tom squared his shoulders defiantly, narrowed his eyes a fraction, and then charged. He headed straight for the werewolf, seeing at the last minute that an arm came up to knock him right off his feet. Tom had been expecting something _like _it, but not that; all the same, he forced his body down and rolled, tucking it in awkwardly as he did, and wrenching something from his boot. Julius didn't react in time, and even as Tom spun back to his knees on the other side, he lashed out and around.

An arc of blood followed the blade as it slashed across Julius' lower back, drawing a bestial roar of pain and fury from him. The blade caught the light as Tom panted, registering the surprise and anger from the other three males across the room. The largest made to join the fray, but held back when Julius whirled. As he turned, his arm swung out, but instead of clubbing the spy crouched nearby, it gripped fiercely in his hair, twisting his head down and around. Tom let out a choked sound like a gasp, and did the only thing he could think of. Reaching out quickly as far as he could, he buried the knife in any body part he could find. Julius howled, infuriated, as his thigh was punctured above the knee, and blood poured from around the blade.

Still gripping Tom's blonde hair, he kicked out with his other foot. The toe of his solid boot smashed into the American agent's chest, and he cried out, even as Julius dropped his head. Unable to hold himself up after the savage blow, the spy dropped like a lead weight to the floor, gasping for breath. His lungs burned as if surrounded by fire, and his ribs flared madly. His first thought was that Julius had broken something, but even as he braced his struck torso with an arm, he didn't feel the familiar agony… perhaps cracked, or severely bruised, but not broken.

He heard the scrape of steel against bone as Julius tore the blade from his leg. Waiting for it to plunge into his body somewhere as the werewolf took his revenge, he started violently when the large knife slammed loudly into the wooden floorboard not two inches from his bowed-over head. He threw himself away from it, drawing entertained laughter from the three males at the side of the room. Collapsing near the doorway, Tom grimaced and suppressed a groan, opening his eyes to land them on the gory remains across the room.

And then only one thought occurred to him.

_Run_.

Breathing harshly, he looked from one werewolf to the next, landing his eyes finally on Julius.

_Run. Run now._

This was a fight he couldn't win; no matter what he did, he would lose. And if he didn't get out, then he was already dead.

Waiting for Julius to turn his head triumphantly to the other three males at the side of the room, effectively drawing their attention to him, Tom scrambled to his feet, and bolted for the door, and potential freedom. Nearly stumbling at the doorway, he begged his legs not to fail him, and ran as fast as they would carry him down the dilapidated hallway. He heard the yells and pursuit from behind him, and frantically searched for a way out.

_C'mon, c'mon, please…_

He practically fell into an old living room, filled with draped furniture no doubt rotten and mouldy beneath the old sheets, knocking over a small table holding candles on the way in. Cursing, he leapt back from the flames that ignited the oily fabric of a decayed drape.

_Window!_ Tom's mind screamed at him, but before he could grab something to throw at the covered glass, he felt fingers latch around his wrist. Had Julius and the others caught up with him already? He looked, panicked, back the way he had come, seeing that the flames had spread across the hallway's entrance, blocking the four male werewolves from pursuing him into the dirty living room.

_Then what—_

Before Tom could even look to the owner of the hand that had grabbed him, he was being swung around. His back crashed up against the nearest wall, knocking all gathered air out of him again, leaving him dazed and light-headed. Pinned to the wall, he opened his eyes, seeing blue pupils staring into his own green ones at close proximity. He almost thought it was Mina for a moment, before he remembered he was being pinned to the wall, and he pulled his head back as much as possible, taking in what other features he could see; smoke was slowly starting to fill the room, but he could see smooth, defined cheekbones, delicate, feminine lips and brows, and blonde hair around her neck and shoulders. For a minute, Tom was stunned, and could do nothing, but it didn't take him long to realise she was no saviour. He thrashed at once, managing to land a knee against her hard enough to startle her, and loosen her grip. He grabbed a dusty vase from a rickety table beside him, and smashed it into her head, hearing her cry out. Her fingers released his wrist. He heard snarls and roars, and he watched in awed horror as four beastly forms launched themselves _over_ the fire that had blocked the hallway. On four legs they advanced, baring wicked fangs as their lupine ears flattened against broad, thick skulls. Hackles shot up from their backs and shoulders like spikes, and they approached him hungrily; with intent.

Noticing the swirl of smoke away from the wall behind him, he instinctively grabbed the rickety table the vase had been resting on, and swung it around with a yell. His chest burned intensely from the blow Julius had landed, and the building smoke, but even as he felt the wooden piece of furniture in his hand hit another draped window, he knew he could bear the discomfort, so long as he could get out. The deafening smash of the glass filled his ears, and the wolves recoiled from the sharp shards that exploded from around the table, as Tom released it. The wooden frame of the table caught in the drape enough to tear it down from its poor hangings, and dusky light poured into the room. The oxygen fed the flames, and they roared towards the ceiling. The werewolves shied away from it, the blonde woman — now sporting a bloody wound to her left temple — followed them, even as they surrounded her protectively from the heat.

Not waiting a moment longer, Tom collected himself, and turned for the window.

It was then that a huge body soared through the smashed window, ignoring any broken fragments that might have caught against skin or clothing, and collided with Tom forcefully. The impact drove them away from the window, and Tom felt the backs of his legs collide with another table. Losing his balance, he toppled onto it, even as it cracked and gave way beneath the weight of the two bodies. With a yell, he felt his back hit the floor, jarring his shoulder blades and wooden splinters scattered everywhere. A muscular man with a shaved head loomed over him, and without even batting an eyelid, he heaved up and around, releasing his grips on Tom's lapels after putting enough momentum behind the spy's body to launch him cleanly across the room. He struck the wall beside the window he had just smashed, and rebounded, falling heavily to the floor with little more than a struggled gasp. From where he lay, he could see where the floorboards met the wall, a stinging in the side of his head keeping him from focusing completely. Even as he tried to pull himself back to his feet, he realised he didn't have the strength. He could barely move at _all_.

He felt shadows come over him before his consciousness failed completely.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	2. Alone

**Author's Note:** Something about this kind of angst just begs to be written quickly XD Thanks to those who reviewed the first chapter. I'm going to bump the rating up to M now, because it's going to get progressively more violent and… well, 'adult', from this point. Remember to just let me know if you don't want to be added to the update email list. Feel free to ask me any questions in reviews, such as who I've 'cast' for the original characters. Hope you enjoy the update. The prompt was 'Where?'.

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**CHAPTER TWO: ALONE**

His dark eyes left the slumped figure near the wall, practically motionless as it was, and landed on the members of his pack present. The four males looked at him almost warily with wolfen eyes of varying shades; amber, vivid green, icy blue and near-white. The blonde woman they were encircling took her hand from her temple, which, though bloody, was no longer cut. She nearly shied away from the gaze that turned on her. The crackling of the fire grew louder as the smoke and heat escalated.

"Sable, get any weapons he left," the large, muscular male commanded from his place by the shattered table, his eyes moving to the human by the wall again, watching him breathe; he was alive. He'd be sore when he woke up, definitely, but he was alive. "The rest of you, get him outside." They reacted without hesitation, transforming and carrying out the Alpha male's orders obediently. The only one who didn't reek of blood was Abernathy, who took the human by the scruff, and heaved him effortlessly from the dirty floorboards.

Tyrone didn't miss the glance the younger male turned on Magdalena, seeing the desire and concern there, even as the female licked her fingertips. Sable wasn't long in returning, holding in his gloved hands a rifle, and two six-shooters. It was no wonder they all bore evidence of injuries, but Tyrone was disappointed all the same. They were supposed to be professionals… natural hunters. The best. To think that a human had bested them, even if only briefly… it was enough to make him feel shame. But he would save his displeasure for when they relocated. Even as the group started to move out of the 'abandoned' building, some of the roof's supports gave way; a testament to the weakening of the structure from the fire.

The Alpha male found his Beta matching pace, taking in Julius' ragged appearance, and shaking his head. He would have to have serious words with his second-in-command; this was unacceptable. Abernathy dragged the unconscious human with ease, casting frequent glances to Magdalena, who was trailed by Felipe and Sable.

And to think they had lost Theodore as well. Tyrone hadn't missed that fact; over the years, he had taught himself to take in the slightest detail. The body had been dealt with, but otherwise left behind. If the 'guard' had gotten himself killed, then there would be no burial or thought spared for him. He was dead, and that was that.

At least they had salvaged _something_ from the entire mess. The Alpha's dark eyes looked down at the dragged body for a few moments, and he allowed himself the faintest hint of a smirk. Hopefully, Chantal would be amused by the turn of events.

* * *

Fire.

She could smell it, and even as she was lifted over the treetops by her supernatural cloud of bats, she turned her head in the wind. Her dark auburn hair whipped eerily about her pale features, and red eyes saw the bright flames and swirling smoke. It was dying out, but it was still burning. Her crimson gaze turned downwards as her skirts flurried about her legs like the wings of the creatures keeping her airborne, and she saw the others looking up at her through the shadows of the tree canopies. High-pitched screeching filled the air, and she spiralled downwards, materialising to their right from the gloom. The creatures faded like weak mist, and she regarded them all in turn.

Captain Nemo's regal demeanour didn't shift or weaken as he waited for her report, one weathered hand rested on a graceful pommel of an 'ornamental' sword at his left hip. The silver details in his pristine uniform glimmered faintly in the moonlight from above. Rodney Skinner was only visible by his black trench coat and trilby, which cocked to the left faintly as he too listened for what she might have to say. From the positions of the elbows of his jacket, it could be assumed his hands were protected in his deep pockets. Dr. Henry Jekyll looked nervous as always, fiddling restlessly with a scuffed silver pocket watch that hung from an elegant chain in his vest's pouch. His tie was slightly askew, as if he had attempted to loosen it, and only misplaced it from where it normally lay down his chest.

Wilhelmina Harker glanced in the direction of the fire off beyond the trees, in a clearing not far from them. "This way," she said in a whisper of a tone, leading the men behind her as she walked, her skirts rustling faintly around her ankles.

"Sawyer's around, then?" Skinner inquired as he came up to her left, his features as invisible as the wind that tugged at his dark coat.

Mina turned her light eyes towards him. "I detected his scent, but all I could really smell was the fire."

"_Fire_?" Skinner all but squeaked, faltering in his stride so that Nemo overtook him with ease. The Indian came up beside the vampiress.

"A fire?" he asked for clarification, calm and collected as always.

She nodded. "Yes. It's burning out, but it _is_ burning. An old house, from what I could see."

"And you believe Agent Sawyer was in the area?"

Mina hesitated only a moment, nodding her head faintly. "Yes, I do."

They fell quiet as they approached the shell of the building. When they came within visual range of it, Skinner hung back noticeably, still rather timid after his wounding in Mongolia; his burns had taken weeks to heal with Dr. Jekyll's help and treatment, but the emotional damage was taking longer. Mina anticipated it would be quite some time before the invisible man could truly face his fear.

"I'll just, uh… stand guard, then," he offered in a tone that he tried to pass off as cheeky. Mina heard the slight shake all the same, as well as she heard the telltale sound of leather falling to the ground. Skinner had shed the garments that were betraying his position, and now, he would be completely indiscernible from his surroundings. A most useful scout, she had to agree.

The woman strode closer to the dying flames, instinctively wary herself. Fire was one of the true enemies to any vampire; it could reduce her to ash in moments if she wasn't careful. Nemo and Jekyll came up on either side of her, the light from the flames dancing over their faces. She glanced to them briefly, and without a word, they split up to see what they could find.

Approaching the collapsed front of the building, she scoured the ground around her as she walked, waiting for any—

Mina crouched gracefully, reaching down slowly and touching her hand to the ground. Her fingertips came away bloody, and though her vampiric thirst tugged at her, she pushed it down at once, and simply sniffed at the thick crimson liquid staining her skin. A growl rattled in her throat, and she looked up. She quickly walked away from the bloodied patch, and located Captain Nemo around the left side of the building as he disturbed some glass fragments with the toe of his polished boot. He looked up at her as she approached, seeing her expression. "Mrs. Harker," he acknowledged, "you have found something?"

"Yes," she confirmed. Together, they walked around and collected Jekyll, who had been staring down at possible large footprints in the dirt, before reconvening at the front of the building so that they could include Skinner in their discussion. It was only then that Mina showed her bloody fingertips. "This was on the ground, just over there." She indicated briefly.

"Sawyer?" Skinner asked at once, concern in his tone.

The vampire shook her head. "No, not Agent Sawyer. Something else. It's possible he killed it though…" She almost hoped she was wrong about that, but even as she glanced behind her to where she'd spotted the blood, she could see spent shell casings.

"What is it, then?" Jekyll asked to her left, glancing at the blood with a furrowed brow and almost suspicious expression. He had stopped fiddling with his watch now, she noticed.

Mina stared down at her fingertips again, her eyes waning red just briefly as the light from the fire dimmed and faded even more; the flames were dying.

"A werewolf…"

* * *

The first thing he heard when his senses started to return to him was the drumming of his own slightly irregular heartbeat in his ears, and how it reverberated through his entire skull, casting a dull ache through his head, starting at his temples and working back. There was no other sound, even as he pulled in a shaky, laboured breath, bracing himself before he even _tried_ to move. The last thing he remembered was his feet leaving the ground, and then… darkness. The fifth man had burst through the window out of nowhere, catching him off guard.

A sharp stinging through the right side of his head caused his face to twist into a grimace as a faint groan slipped out of him. Inhaling deeply, he dared to try and move, hearing the sound of one of his boots scrape against what sounded like a wooden floor underneath him. The sole of his boot had been flat against something, and he opened his eyes a fraction, finding himself staring straight down at floorboards badly in need of dusting, or flat-out replacing. Sure enough, he seemed to be upright…

This suspicion was only supported when he tried to move his arms, wincing heavily as he did so, failing utterly. Behind his back, he could feel some kind of wooden pillar, his arms pulled behind it. He could feel coarse rope around his limbs, looping around the beam, and beyond that, his wrists were fastened to another solid piece of wood, like a second pillar. Moving his hands only caused the bonds to chafe against his skin, and he winced again, cutting off a hiss before it even sounded, closing his eyes tightly. His arms were so completely and tightly bound that even _trying_ to struggle caused him discomfort and pain; his shoulders were protesting fiercely to the angle, and he could feel an unsettling heat through his left forearm. Remaining completely still, he tried to think if he'd hurt it before losing consciousness, but he couldn't remember anything of the sort; he could only conclude they'd twisted it when they were restraining him… and no doubt intentionally.

Tom allowed his eyes to open halfway again, still looking down, letting another groan slip out of him. His vision was slightly hazy, but he thought he saw something fastened around his waist. Bracing himself, he tried to move, and pulled in a sharp breath; they'd tied him back to the pillar to stop him struggling. His chest burned intensely with the intake of breath, and he grimaced again, feeling the throbbing through his ribcage from the kicks he'd been dealt.

Through the still-clearing fog in his mind, he could form only one thought: _I'm in trouble_.

He only realised his low noises while regaining consciousness had attracted attention when he heard someone approaching him, keeping as still as possible instinctively, in the faint hope that they might leave him alone. The figure walked past him, and around to his left, continuing to pace before coming up on his right. Fighting to keep from clenching his fists, he waited, breath all but held. The figure stopped moving.

Tom, for a moment, thought they might have wandered quietly away… before a hand came around under his bottom jaw, and thrust his head up and back. His head connected with the pillar he was bound to, and he gasped lightly, drawing a chuckle from one or two nearby. Whoever was in the room had been completely silent; Tom hadn't heard a thing before the approach of whoever was holding his jaw now. A hand touched to the side of his head, and he hissed in discomfort again as the stinging worsened, before they pulled away. A woman's face came into view, her loosely curled blonde hair shrouding a strong but still-feminine face. Cold eyes stared at him, and full lips peeled back in a smile, before she said in a tone laced with amused disdain, "You should be more careful…" And then she showed him her other hand, which was smeared with blood; blood that he assumed she'd wiped from the side of his head, where he could feel the throbbing. With that, she laughed to herself, and released his jaw, allowing his head to drop forward somewhat. He caught himself before it dropped completely, and gave it the smallest of shakes. He could barely think clearly, let alone take in his situation.

Lifting his eyes, he looked to the other figures in the room. The blonde woman was still standing near to him, tall, and slender, but with subtle prowess visible in how she carried herself. He didn't recognise her from the burning house, but he _did_ recognise the spiky-haired individual sitting casually on an old shipping crate, leaned back as if completely relaxed. He was smirking in a crooked, entertained fashion, fingers knitted together in his lap as one leg swayed loosely off the edge of his perch. Sitting atop the tallest crate, perched in a crouch like a gargoyle, was a slightly wide-eyed male, who seemingly couldn't take his gaze from Tom. He cocked his head lightly to one side, his messy dark hair matching his eyes, even as he glanced to the other figure in the room. The last one present was the one Tom recognised as 'Felipe'. He stood, leaned back silently against the wall near a door, arms crossed over his chest in an almost defensive stance. The American's eyes lingered on the man for a moment, before the woman's voice drew his attention back.

"Sawyer, is it?"

_How did she…?_

She caught something tossed to her by the casually seated male, and flipped it open with her bloodied hand, regarding it almost in a bored fashion. Tom knew what it was without seeing it properly. His eyes closed as he sighed, and he leaned his head back for a few moments.

His government badge.

It had been in the inner jacket of his duster.

"A little _young_ to be a spy, aren't you?" she continued, flashing the badge in his direction briefly before throwing it back to the male off behind her. He caught it out of the air with one hand, and glanced at it again. He took to turning it over and over in his hands, never taking his eyes from the blonde woman, and the bound agent. "Though maybe that explains why you're not very good…" she persisted, knitting her brow lightly and tilting her head a little as if in thought.

"Actually," the spiky-haired male spoke up, flipping the identification open again, "this says '_Special_ Agent'." Shrugging, he closed it again.

"Hmm…" She turned her eyes back on Tom, considering. "And you're one of the best they have to offer?" She glanced to the others, who smirked in their own fashions, save for the wide-eyed one perched on the tall crate. "Sounds like the 'American Secret Service' isn't trying very hard."

Knowing they were just trying to goad him, Tom told himself he would be better off just keeping his mouth shut. But the small voice in the back of his head wasn't having any of it. "So I guess I just got lucky when I shot your buddy 'Felipe' over there," he offered, glancing to the dark man in the corner, who growled faintly. "The big bastard with the gloves too… and your friend 'Julius'…"

Her smile faded, and her eyes flickered yellow. After a moment, she backhanded him, throwing his head to the left and leaving him dazed. He forced his head back up after a short recovery, and looked her dead in the eye. "Oh yeah, and the blonde who had the vase smashed into her head."

She struck him again, using a fist instead. His head snapped to the left, and his jaw ached. He winced, recuperating, and exhaled slowly, pulling his head up again, even as footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Tom pulled a face as the discomfort lingered through his face, and looked to the door as it was thrown open, nearly striking Felipe as the Hispanic werewolf jumped to the side out of the way. The bound agent vaguely recognised the muscular man who entered first, his dark eyes and shaved head giving him a fierce, imposing presence. He was followed by a dark-skinned female, and the one Tom remembered as Julius. Others entered behind him, but Tom found his eyes following the first figure; the gruff man who had burst through the shattered window and ploughed him into the table before knocking him out.

The woman who had struck Tom slunk back away from him, and lingered at the side of the room. Up on the crate, the crouched individual pulled his body in tighter, and became smaller, if at all possible; his eyes were still wide, and he was still eerily silent.

"This is the human who smacked you around, Julius?" the dark woman inquired of the man to her left, her braided hair pulled away from her face to be fastened at the back of her head neatly. Her smooth features did nothing to hide the cold mocking in her tone as she addressed what was clearly a subordinate. Julius said nothing, simply turned a glare towards Tom. The woman chuckled, and looked to the blonde agent as well, taking him in quietly as he breathed raggedly. He'd taken a moment to quickly count those in the room — which was apparently larger than he'd first noticed, given the number occupying it now — and had come to the rather alarming conclusion that there were quite a few of them; twelve, in fact. The burly, gloved male was by the door, and not far from him was the blonde whose head he'd smashed with the vase.

"He looks like nothing but a child," the woman concluded with a faint smile, her brown eyes filled with amusement, and she shook her head. "You've all gone _soft_." She moved forward, drawing closer to Tom, who automatically tried to pulled back, already flush against the pillar as it was. Inwardly, he cursed, and settled for trying to straighten himself; he wasn't sure what she was going to do when she finished approaching, but there was something about her that struck him as unnerving. She paused just to his left for a moment, drawing in a deep breath… and it dawned on the agent then that she was _smelling_ him, albeit discreetly. She continued on her way, carrying herself with grace around him, as if examining every inch of him. Instead of trying to keep track of her, Tom looked from one face to the next; taking in any details he could while he had the chance. Whether or not he would be able to use them later, he didn't know, but he supposed he would find out.

"I'm impressed you held back as much as you did, Julius…" the female said from Tom's right, near his ear, and he flinched without being able to stop himself. If the werewolves chuckled, they kept it quiet. "Or perhaps I'm disappointed," she continued, changing her mind with a sigh. "Nothing's even _broken_." She stopped in front of Tom, and after a moment, laid a hand against him, above his waist, and just over to the right side of his body. Cocking her head, she glanced up at Tom's face, into his eyes. Giving him a fleeting smile, she pushed. Hard.

A crack filled the room, overcome quickly by the sound of Tom's yell of pain; it had ripped its way free before he'd been able to stop it. Laughter echoed from one or two of the individuals in the room, and pure stubborn determination forced the anguished spy to cut off his cry, and bite it back. He screwed up his face instead, and hissed through teeth clenched so tightly he thought he might break his own jaw. A few more agonising moments passed… and then she pulled her hand from his body, relieving him of the pressure. He exhaled roughly at once, panting as his head dropped forward. His arms ached madly from the strain on them as he supported his weight, slumping somewhat after the assault.

"That's better," the woman murmured almost bluntly, and then paced back to the muscular man's side. As Tom lifted his eyes, straining to keep them open, he saw the man's arm wrap around her waist possessively. Julius was grinning cruelly at her other side, arms crossed almost proudly, as if he'd done the damage himself. In some ways, he had; he'd weakened the bone — or _bones _— enough for the woman to be able to snap them with a push, like she had. She laughed softly, meeting his gaze with her own, and said lightly, "Feel like meeting the pack?"

_Not really_, he objected mentally, lacking the strength suddenly to argue verbally.

Taking his silence as her cue, she laid her hand on the chest of the man holding her to him, saying as she did, "Tyrone; he'd be the one who put you down without breaking a sweat. You've met Julius, Felipe, Sable—" here she indicated the large, gloved individual, waving next to the spiky-haired one slouched on the crates, "and Abernathy." She persisted as if this were a casual meeting, contradicting the harsh reality of the situation; "You've met Magdalena, too." The blonde woman who Tom had struck with the vase was staring directly at him, and even as he met her gaze, he felt something like a cold shudder run up his spine. "That's Melody." The woman who had been tormenting him before the others' arrival was indicated. "That's Annelise, and the short one is Marissa." Two more women were indicated: the first had natural, dark circles like shadows around her blue eyes, and tousled long black hair; the second was indeed shorter, tucking knotted brown hair behind her ears, with a mousy expression and calculating dark eyes. "You've got Quentin in the corner." Quentin was a blonde male toying with a flick-blade pensively, curls not too dissimilar to Tom's hanging around his eyes as he glanced up almost impassively. "I'm Chantal… and the skittish one up there… he's Pike." The wide-eyed male blinked at the sound of his name, and looked down as if surprised at being acknowledged. "Don't mind Pike… he's a little crazy." She allowed herself a grin, her sharp teeth giving away her true nature.

Glancing over her shoulder at a faint noise Tom barely heard, Chantal glanced to Abernathy, who offered her the identification badge. She reached out and took it, inspecting it for herself. Tom watched her, and Tyrone, seeing the clear dominance that they displayed towards the others in the room. They were, undoubtedly, the leaders.

"And _you_," Chantal finally said with a faint smile as she closed the badge slowly, her eyes landing on the bound agent once again, "would be Tom Sawyer."

Tom said nothing, fighting against the powerful urge to just return to the dark, numb comfort of unconsciousness again.

"Well, Tom Sawyer…" she began, showing that grin again, "welcome to 'hell'."

_**To Be Continued…**_


	3. Helpless

**Author's Note:** Another update already; your eyes do not deceive you O.o Crazy, I know, but eh… can't deny these crazy muses, huh? Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter; this one is a little shorter, unfortunately, but my muse told me when to stop, and that was that, annoyingly. There's a little bit of… 'unpleasantness', in this chapter, but it's not too bad. Yet, heh…

This prompt was 'broken'.

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE: HELPLESS**

Returning to the Nautilus told the _League_ one thing; Tom Sawyer hadn't returned to their 'sanctuary', and as such, was, for all intents and purposes, missing in action. Rodney Skinner knew what that meant, and having heard Mina's speech about werewolves, he was less than reassured. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to head right back out and get a more thorough search underway. Instead, they were heading for the stateroom to go over their findings.

_Even though we already **did** that_, Skinner grumbled to himself as he trudged at the back of the procession. They'd discussed their discoveries at the sight of the fire, and on the way back to the submarine.

As they headed into the formal room, he found himself saying, "Remind me again why we're not out there looking for Sawyer?"

Mina Harker looked back at him, glancing down at the blood still on her fingertips, as she said, "Because we need to be prepared." Lifting her gaze from her hand, she looked to the floating jacket.

"But if what you say about these werewolves is true, then we need to find him. And quick."

"We don't even know he's definitely been captured," Jekyll offered somewhat meekly from the other side of the table, having taken to toying with his pocket watch again. Skinner thought he would have to try hiding it one day, just to see what happened…

"The kid didn't just vanish, did he?" the thief argued bluntly. "And Mina said he was in the area, along with those… things."

Sighing, even as she used a cloth from the table's top — a napkin, presumably — to clean her fingertips, Mina said, "Mr. Skinner has a point… unfortunately." Her blue eyes lifted to regard the men. "Someone was dragged from the building."

The invisible man blinked, silenced by this little revelation. "Why the bloody hell didn't you say that _before_?" he demanded after a moment, concern increasing with each passing moment.

"Mr. Skinner," Mina responded, meeting his gaze through some supernatural marvel, he supposed, "I know exactly how you feel, and believe me, you are not alone in your wish to find Agent Sawyer, and save him from… whatever has befallen him. But I also know that rushing in blindly will get us nowhere, and it will do our friend no good if we don't _think_." She tossed the cloth onto the tabletop as she spoke, clearly ruffled by this turn of events.

"Why'd we even let him bugger off in the first place?" the thief persisted irritably, the sleeves of his coat waving to each side as he gestured emphatically. "If you've known about these werewolves all this time, why didn't you stop and think 'wait, he might get into trouble if he wanders off on his own'?"

"How was I supposed to know this was werewolf territory?" she returned defensively.

"Smell 'em, maybe?" he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. "You've got those heightened senses after all; might as well use 'em."

As he stood there staring at her, he realised he'd insulted her; she'd fallen completely silent and still, and the only reaction was in her eyes. Her face was an unreadable mask save for that light in her eyes… deep, burning concern and… was that guilt?

"Excuse me…" she mumbled briskly under her breath, and left the room without another word. Skinner blinked, surprised he'd not only won an argument, but provoked such a reaction from someone who usually shielded her emotions so absolutely. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed miserably, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Now he was getting a headache…

_Fabulous…_

* * *

A muffled cry was cut short as he bit down hard, wishing he could just move his head as the intense, burning pain surged through his hands, sending shocks up and down his arms with each attack. Felipe was behind the second pillar, adding specific pressure in intervals to a finger, or the hand itself. At least one finger was already broken, on his dominant, right hand. Even with all his experience, and what he'd been through, Tom had never expected a break so simple could hurt so much.

The werewolf identified as Quentin stood just behind and to his right, silent but serving his purpose as the torment persisted.

Breathing heavily to try and overcome the discomfort, Tom kept his eyes shut tightly; any training the Service provided to withstand this sort of treatment had abandoned him… he'd never been prepared for torture at the hands of _werewolves_ after all, and experienced ones at that, apparently.

He felt, rather than heard the slight crack in his left hand, and tried to cry out again. The filthy rag forced into his mouth served a double purpose; the length was pulled back around the first pillar, held tightly by Quentin's single hand, keeping the pained spy from disturbing the rest of the pack with his shouts of agony, as well as keeping him from thrashing too much. The taste of the cloth was making Tom nauseous, and he tried not to let himself think about where it might have been before being used to gag and restrain him.

"This is nothing," a voice said from behind him, and he recognised the lilt of the accent as Felipe ran his hands over Tom's bound ones, pensive, precise movements as he searched for the next vulnerable point. "A few breaks? The least of your troubles…" The weakening in Tom's left hand was pressurised again, and he whimpered into the rag, trying to pull his head forward, before Quentin tightened, reminding him to keep still.

The blonde werewolf leaned around the pillar, not loosening his hold on the cloth as he said quietly next to Tom's ear, "Wait until Annelise's turn…" He inhaled, a hiss through his teeth before he laughed quietly, disturbing Tom's hair. "She may be quiet, but…" His free hand patted the agent on the chest, making him wince in discomfort. "Well, I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, would I?"

Tom heard Felipe's chuckle, and groaned quietly to himself. He tried not to let the meaning behind Quentin's taunt sink in… 'turns'. Was that the fate that had befallen the previous victim; the one Tom had discovered in the building where he'd been captured? Forced to endure hours of torture, as each werewolf in the pack took their 'turn'?

_Don't think about it_, his mind snapped sharply. He had to focus on fighting the pain, and keeping from showing any weaknesses. He had to hold out until the _League_ arrived…

* * *

Keeping from slamming her door through sheer force of will, Mina locked it behind her without a thought, and stood there in the darkness of her cabin. Her breathing quickly became heavy, and she balled a fist, eyes closing as she felt them bleed red.

Skinner was right.

Why hadn't she detected the danger?

She should have known that a simple kidnapping investigation wouldn't be so… _simple_. All thoughts relating to that 'case' were abandoned now, and her mind focused on one thing… Sawyer. Tom.

If they didn't find him quickly, then there was no hope. Why hadn't she tracked the scents? If they didn't get back out to where they originated quickly, then she might lose that one clue… they'd never find their friend. She was furious with herself for even _suggesting_ they come back to regroup, and as she stood there, she growled at herself, shaking with anger for a moment. And then, quite suddenly, she grabbed a lamp from next to her, and hurled it, taking grim satisfaction in the smash as it collided against the far wall. Its remains scattered over the floor, and she exhaled deeply, opening her eyes. Her vampirism helped her to see in the darkness of her cabin, and with purpose, she moved around.

They had no time to lose.

* * *

"We're leaving," the vampire announced as she entered the room again without warning, the sound of her approach having fallen on deaf ears, apparently. Henry Jekyll started impressively in his chair, glancing up at once as she came striding in, dressed very noticeably in what had been dubbed as her combat attire; leather and completely black, it was stealthy, allowed for freedom of movement, and was very… unbecoming a woman of the time.

Edward Hyde, within the mind of the meek doctor, cared very little, and sneered approvingly. The chestnut-haired physician ignored his alter-ego, and glanced to Skinner and Nemo, who had acknowledged the woman's arrival more discreetly. Feeling a little sheepish, Henry sat up a little straighter in his chair, trying not to seem so skittish.

"We are?" Skinner inquired, almost warily. His intangible head turned to the right, topped by his trilby, showing where his focus lay.

Mina Harker nodded her head. "Yes, we are." Moving up to the table, she lifted something in her hand, and lay it down on the surface for them all to see, even as she unravelled what was apparently a thick cloth. When Henry saw its contents, his eyes widened a little, the objects glinting in the light of the stateroom as the _League_ regarded them. The vampire looked in turn to each man, and then said, "These weapons are all silver; fatal to werewolves if used in the correct manner. Strike the brain or heart, and the blow is fatal. If you miss…" She cocked her head. "Silver burns werewolves, and causes excruciating pain, but it would be in your best interest not to miss, gentlemen. There is nothing more dangerous than a frenzied werewolf, especially when wounded."

The invisible man turned his head from one man to the other, seeing the silent readiness in Nemo, and Henry wondered if he looked as apprehensive as he thought he did; naturally, the thief's face gave him no hints…

"Right then," Skinner acknowledged, hesitating for only a moment, before reaching into the assortment, and pulling out a pair of impressive knives.

Mina Harker said nothing about the origins of these weapons, nor did they inquire as to why she hadn't spoken of them before. It wasn't important.

What mattered was that they had the means to help their friend.

Now they just had to _find_ him.

* * *

Feeling another break in his left hand, Tom gave another cry against the gag, and tried to struggle, only free to move his legs, as useless as that was to him. Quentin's grip kept him from moving his head, and the binding of his arms kept his torso still, along with the securing of his waist to the pillar behind him. He panted, and just stifled what could only be described as a whimper as his hands burned agonisingly from the assaults.

As if to deal him one final blow, Felipe wrapped his larger hands around Tom's, and applied force to make the American clench them into fists. He gave a weakened sound against the cloth of the gag, forced to endure the discomfort until the Spanish werewolf released completely. The sound of heavy boots walking around from behind him told him that this wave of pain was over… hopefully. The filthy rag was loosened, and finally released. Tom grimaced as it slipped from his mouth, groaning quietly before spitting down at the floor. Subconsciously, he was careful to avoid Felipe's feet when he did so; he wasn't in the mood to anger him now… not until he'd recovered a little.

Smiling somewhat smugly, Felipe reached up a hand, and took hold of Tom's lower jaw. Automatically, the spy flinched, but too late, finding his attention pulled towards the werewolf who'd just broken a few bones in his hands. "That was for shooting me," he revealed, sounding rather satisfied with the punishment he'd dealt. Tom set his jaw defiantly, and narrowed his eyes, feeling the werewolf's hand fall away…

Before it slammed into his face as a fist, snapping his head over to the right so forcefully he though he might black out. Instead, he let out a quiet gasp, and tested his jaw; something told him that Felipe was fully capable of breaking it if he so desired, but apparently, he'd held back. Instead, Tom felt the hot stream of blood from his nose, and with his hands bound and now injured, he could only let it flow freely, no matter how uncomfortable it was.

Smirking, Quentin ruffled Tom's hair, drawing a hiss from the captive as the mocking touch disturbed the wound at the side of his head. Wincing, he watched the two males leave the room, closing the door behind them. The aggrieved spy almost laughed bitterly as a lock sounded, allowing himself to slump back against the pillar a little as he groaned openly. Tilting his head back proved to be a mistake, and he pulled a face as blood trickled down the back of his throat. With a deep sound of discomfort, he leaned his head forward again, coughing once and spitting onto the floor again. He felt the flow trickling down his face, to his neck, and grimaced, reminding himself he had to bear it.

Experimentally, Tom shifted his hands, regretting it instantly. Bolts of pain raced through his bound limbs, and he breathed heavily. The dull, constant ache to the right of his chest reminded him of the broken rib Chantal had left him with, and he closed his eyes, trying not to lean forward from the pillar, lest he strain his arms and shoulders. Idly, he tried to remember if he'd ever been more uncomfortable in his life, coming up blank. Needless to say, it was hardly a comfort.

Grimacing again as the blood continued to flow, he opened his eyes, and allowed them to roam, searching the room. Even if there _had_ been anything useful, Tom knew it would have been a hollow hope; even before they had started to torture him, he'd tried to weaken the ropes binding him, only to cause himself more pain, short-lived though it was… so long as he didn't struggle, the ropes didn't hurt. Much. He wondered how long it would take for his arms to go numb though, and briefly realised it could come as some relief if and when they _did_.

His eyes turned downward, seeing the blood he'd spat out a few moments before, and the drips around it from the flow he kept down turned. He found himself focusing on it, as if watching something so vivid yet insignificant would help distract him from the situation, or inspire some semblance of an escape plan. Then again, even if he _could_ get free of his restraints, how was he supposed to defend himself against _twelve_ werewolves; fit, and powerful as they all apparently were? He hadn't even stood a chance against a third of that, back at the house, spurring his attempt to flee.

_What next?_ Tom found himself wondering grimly, lifting his head at the smallest sound from outside. Subconsciously, he held his breath, only allowing himself to breathe again when he was absolutely certain no one was coming, and therefore, he was free of pain for at least a little while.

When the blood finally stopped running, he leaned his head back against the solid pillar behind him, and breathed out steadily, forcing back a grimace as his ribs flared. A soft groan slipped free, and he tried to find the least uncomfortable position to 'stand' in.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	4. Slide Your Breath

**Author's Note:** Got the new update for you already :D Look at me being productive! Or something. Yeah. The prompt for this was 'Taste', which leads me to warn you all that this has some 'adult' content in it; it could definitely be worse, but it's there all the same. You've been warned, remember.

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR: SLIDE YOUR BREATH**

Wolfen eyes gleamed from the darkness near the water's edge, blinking only once as the figures emerged from the looming shape; a vessel. It was like no boat the creature had ever seen, and it was this fact that made it wary. It almost moved in the shadows, before it felt another shape brush up beside it, signalling it to keep absolutely still, and quiet. If they were spotted, they would be in danger. Even from where it crouched in the foliage, it could smell the raw power from the woman alone; the others… there was more to them than met the eye, it knew.

As the group of four individuals walked away, they conversed in low tones, as if cautious about being overheard. Their subtlety would do them no good with the two creatures lingering not far away, ears pricked in the slight breeze, listening and taking in every word with crystal clarity, as if they stood right beside the strange people.

Glancing with vivid amber eyes to its left, it met the bright green gaze of its companion, and without a sound, the two headed off in stealthy, watchful pursuit of the strangers. They had to be watched; carefully so, at that. If they gave themselves away, then they would be in grave danger. There was a lot at risk. If they made a mistake now, then it could all be over.

They had worked too hard to lose it all now…

* * *

Melody.

It was an irritatingly 'innocent' name for such a cold, cruel individual.

Melody, he had quickly discovered, liked to hit. Not with any kind of weapon, but with her hands… just her hands. It wasn't a particularly feminine mode of attack either, and Tom supposed that was why she revelled in it. She didn't strike him as the kind to flaunt her being a woman. If she wasn't concentrating on constantly dazing and stunning him painfully with powerful strikes to his face and head, he might have admitted she wasn't an unattractive individual. Like the other females in the 'pack', she dressed only in pants and a blouse, and not skirts or any kind of dress, as was the expected attire for women. Then again, the spy doubted they really mingled with civilisation all that much, and therefore, it mattered very little… he assumed they wouldn't care about the opinions of others.

With a grimace, he kept his head bowed down to the side for a moment longer, and then heaved it up again. He'd noticed how she concentrated around the jaw, never higher than his cheek; how she avoided breaking his nose. Briefly, he wondered why, and then he told himself he was probably better off not knowing. If the _League_ didn't arrive soon, he supposed he'd find out for himself…

Needless to say, he wasn't exactly keen.

As with Felipe's 'visit', the werewolf wasn't alone. Melody's companion came in the form of Sable, the large, muscular individual, who simply sat on one of the crates and watched. Tom could only wonder why they seemed to avoid coming in alone; it obviously wasn't that they were concerned about him lashing out, and needing to be restrained. He could barely move as it was, and he had the distinct feeling his ability to do so would only decrease as time went on. As it was, any movement in his hands — especially his left — sent a vicious bolt of pain up the respective arm.

He could only come to the conclusion that Sable was simply here to watch. Quentin, at least, had served a purpose… not that Tom had been exactly grateful for that. Very much the opposite, in fact, understandably.

The more arrogant side of him yearned to make some kind of sarcastic comment; rebel in some way. The part of him that remembered any Secret Service discipline and training, however, told him to do the exact opposite. Keep quiet… maybe they would bore of him.

_Not likely_, he thought dismally as Melody struck him again, the blow blinding him for a few lengthy moments as he recovered from the impact. He made a low sound in the back of his throat as he tasted blood suddenly in his mouth, pulling a face. Unable to hold it back, he coughed, head turned downward, and spat onto the floor at his feet. Pulling another face, he quickly felt it build up around his tongue again, wondering if he'd bitten the inside of his cheek without realising it, during the last punch. It wasn't unlikely.

"About time," Sable murmured, crossing his thick arms over his wide chest, shifting on his perch enough to make the wood of the container creak faintly.

Melody glanced to her companion with a flittering smile, and then looked back to the recipient of her torment, angling her head a little to try and meet Tom's gaze.

"What happened?" the male werewolf persisted in inquiry. "He lose a tooth or something?" He sounded almost amused at the prospect, and Tom resisted a glare.

A harsh grip around his chin tugged his head up, but before Melody could even force his mouth open, the rebellious instinct in the agent kicked in forcefully, and he spat again… right into her face.

She released her hold on him at once, growling loudly. Sable, for his part, grinned; Tom wasn't sure what caused the male to show such amusement, but he assumed he would find out. Melody lifted her right hand to wipe the blood from her face, eyes blazing with contempt. Turning them hatefully on the bound spy, she saw his faint, crooked smirk, and lashed out.

The back of her left hand struck him hard, and he gave a gasp and faint cry, his head snapping to the side, leaving him dizzy and light-headed. A throbbing ache started in his left temple, and he all but cursed inwardly as he felt the sticky, warm flow. A gash had been opened across his left temple, thankfully not reaching his eye, bleeding freely. Instantly, he pulled his head up and back, to keep from getting blood in his eye, hissing through clenched teeth as he heaved himself up the way he did. A low moan slipped out of him before he opened his eyes to glance at the fuming blonde female near to him. Sable was still grinning, chuckling heartily to himself now that Melody had struck the way she had; presumably, the ring on her left hand had opened the wound. Tom's earlier question was answered; Sable had merely been eager for the retaliation from his companion against the American agent.

"Enjoying yourself?" Tom asked in a low voice, panting a little. His left eye closed a fraction, the stinging through the side of his face bringing on the movement, but he blinked them both heavily, and forced it to open properly again, even if only in a partial wince.

Melody was silent for some while, regarding him almost in scrutiny as she stood there, before she prowled forward the last few inches, her face close to his. Her hand came up to wrap around his throat, pushing his head back against the harsh wood of the pillar. He groaned, and set his jaw, keeping his eyes on her as he noticed she wasn't squeezing; she obviously didn't have any intention of choking him in that moment.

He nearly swore loudly when she laid a hand on his ribcage, as if testing for weakness, fingers moving roughly over his clothed torso. Tom's green eyes shut tightly, and he breathed a little heavier as his bruised body protested to the pressure. "Is this where Chantal hurt you…?" Melody murmured, seemingly to herself; her cruel tone, and almost mocking mischief told the spy that she fully intended for him to hear her, close as she was. He gave another groan of discomfort, and shifted his feet somewhat, as if the slight movement would help to distract him. "No… no, that's not it…"

Tom was halfway through telling himself not to react if she found her target, when she did just that… and a cry broke out of him, rough and abrupt as it was. The already-broken rib burned as if set aflame, and he felt a furious heat course up through his chest. He struggled somewhat against her, hearing her chilling laugh. "Ah… _there_ it is…"

Forcing his eyes to open, he met her gaze defiantly, and breathed out heavily to keep from whimpering or moaning through the discomfort. It would fade… perhaps not completely, but it would dull, at least. And for now, it was all he had, and it would have to do. Patting his stomach for the last torment, she released her hand from his throat, watching him screw up his face after her last, spiteful 'blow', before she paced gracefully backwards. Slowly, her fingers came up to wipe her cheek again, as if vain about her appearance after she left the room.

"Until later," she told Tom ominously, cocking her head as she watched him breathe through the pain. His eyes angled up to meet hers, even as Sable straightened a little, his smile fading.

"That's it? You're _done_?"

"For now…" Melody replied, glancing to her somewhat bloodied hand, where she had wiped her face after Tom's crude 'attack'. "If there's enough of him left after the others have had their fun, I'll come back." She looked on the captive with disgust, and Tom pulled himself up again, forcing himself out of his slump, as if somehow proud of her dislike of him. Had he really disinterested her that much already? He almost smiled, but told himself to resist; he didn't want to change her mind, after all.

Without another word, she pulled her heated gaze from the American, and stalked from the room completely. Sable lingered, having stood from his perch, glancing from the doorway, to Tom; he held his gaze on the restrained human for a moment, who didn't break eye-contact lest he seem submissive… and then, before too long, the door was slamming, and the spy was alone again.

Only when both werewolves were gone did Tom lean his head back in a weary motion, his knees weakening a little from the forced upright positioning and the length of time; his legs were starting to ache, much as he'd suspected they might after a while. Briefly, he wished he knew how long he'd been here so far, and how much time had passed since he'd split up from the _League_, essentially singling himself out as a target and leaving himself vulnerable.

Once again — useless though it obviously was — he reminded himself that was precisely why he had to stop wandering off on his own…

* * *

Even though she knew she shouldn't allow herself to be distracted — especially since they hadn't even gotten back to the site of the fire yet — Mina just couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. She had lived too long, and been through too much to simply cast it aside as unfounded paranoia, and she knew eyes on her when she felt them. She cast her eyes around the trees as they walked, formed into a group; she led the small collection, with Nemo and Jekyll right behind her, and Skinner bringing up the rear. For the time being, he wore his coat and trilby, if only to fend off the chill. The west coast of Ireland wasn't a particularly welcoming environment, rather dank and cold; woodland covered most of the shore where the submersible was 'docked', and for all intents and purposes, there wasn't a house for miles.

Save for the one that had been burned down not long ago.

Shaking it off, she felt the breeze disturb her hair around her shoulders, freed from any pins or clips, as it always was when she anticipated combat. The impracticality wasn't an issue for her, she had learned; it didn't matter if her hair swung into her eyes, or fell over her face… she had other senses to rely on in a fight, and she hadn't had cause to reconsider her preferences yet. There was just something more primal, she supposed, about her hair being free and flowing when locked in combat with an opponent.

"Are we gettin' close?" Skinner asked quietly from his place at the back, behind Jekyll and Nemo. The vampire tilted her head slightly, but otherwise did not change her demeanour as she walked.

"Yes," she replied simply, continuing on her trek as she led the men towards the place where she had found the werewolf blood. She found herself wondering where the body was; there had been a significant amount of blood, after all, as if Agent Sawyer had wounded it severely… perhaps even fatally. Enough trauma to the heart or brain, even with a non-silver weapon or projectile, would have been enough to put it down, she knew. Though her personal experience with the creatures was somewhat limited, she more than made up for that in her knowledge of their kind; she knew where to strike, and how, and just what dangers they posed. She knew that a deep enough scratch, or a bite, was enough to transfer the 'virus' of lycanthropy from sire to victim.

Briefly, she found herself wondering if Tom had been wounded in such a manner…

_Concentrate._

Forcing such worrying thoughts aside, she pressed on, her boots carrying her swiftly over the rough ground of the wooded area, with the other _Extraordinary Gentlemen_ behind her, following her without hesitation. It always surprised Mina, somewhat, to think that these men trusted her as much as they did. A year ago, give or take, she would never have expected to have such confidence put in her. Not again, anyway… not after Jonathan had passed away, as he had. Sighing, she allowed her mind to linger on her late husband once more, before she once again felt the unsettling sensation of having eyes on her.

She faltered in stride just barely, but definitely all the same. It had thrown her off, the definite wave of feeling… they were not alone.

They were being watched, and they were being followed…

* * *

It was just as he had been letting himself think that sleep was a faint possibility that he heard the sound outside the door. Delayed though it was, awareness soon returned to him, and drawing in as heavy a breath as he could manage, he pulled his eyes open, and stared towards the barricade that sealed off the room from the rest of whatever building he was imprisoned in. The crates made him think it was some kind of warehouse… it would certainly explain the pillars, or supports, that he found himself tied to the way he was. There was no window in the room; not one that hadn't been boarded up, at least. It gave the room a dusky, abandoned feel, and Tom shuddered very slightly as a cool draft swept over him, bringing him more discomfort.

Even as he watched, the handle on the door shifted, and it swung open, connected to a distinctly feminine hand, and arm. It wasn't long before the limb was followed by the rest of the body, tall and slim, with a definite air of elegance and quiet, subdued pride. Though she was quiet, she was by no means meek… Tom could tell that from where he stood, watching her enter as if taking his eyes from her would give her an opening to strike. She already had enough of an opening as it was; Tom was helpless to defend himself, he knew, and it was bothering him more than it should have been, to know that he couldn't block or defend against strikes, as he normally would. He'd already taken far more than his pride would normally allow, but it was perhaps this trait — this stubbornness — that was keeping him from showing how much it was really hurting… how much pain he was actually in.

The blonde female he recognised as Magdalena strode into the room, not even turning as she closed the door behind her, remaining close to it for a time as she observed him silently. Her eyes raked over him, and though it took him a while to register the intention, he saw the _hunger_ there. He shuddered again, subtly, knowing the reaction had nothing to do with the cold whatsoever. The way in which she let her eyes wander over him sent a small alarm off inside his head, and he tensed subconsciously; discreetly.

She moved away from the door, her motions slow and calculated. She didn't lock her eyes on his like the others had instantly, to assert their 'dominance' over him. She was too intent with inspecting him, as if committing details to memory. Tom became increasingly wary when she moved around out of his field of vision, and he almost clenched his hands to brace himself, before he remembered the damage already done, and how he would only make things worse if he followed through on his instincts. Her movements were so precise and stealthy that he could barely hear them at all. She moved like a hunter, sizing up her prey, and despite himself, Tom felt his heart race a little quicker in his chest, as if expecting the worst.

Magdalena emerged from her prowling, coming up at his right side, and leaning closer to him. Tom, still as he was against the pillar, recognised the motion and precision from earlier, when Chantal had been close to him; the blonde werewolf was smelling him, but she was doing so in a much more prolonged, perhaps extensive manner. She inhaled deeply, moving just a fraction closer before exhaling. Tom briefly felt her warm breath play over his jaw, and he closed his eyes, forcing his own breathing to remain as steady as possible; it had picked up a little, but hopefully not by much… he couldn't show her how uncomfortable she was making him.

Out of the corner of his eye as he opened them, he saw her lips turn up faintly into a ghost of a smile. Unlike Melody's, hers was rather lacking in malice… there was something else.

Tom tried to tell himself it wasn't hunger, or desire…

He failed… quite impressively.

Inching closer to him, Magdalena continued to take in his scent, lowering somewhat to take in a deep breath along his chest and shoulders. Tom's eyes closed tightly again, and he pressed his head back against the solid pillar, trying to concentrate on something — _anything _— else other than the all-too-curious and intent werewolf bringing herself closer and closer to his body as she smelt him. Her face rose, coming to his neck, and he felt her skin brush against him, clenching his jaw as he breathed deeply.

_Get away from me_, he demanded mentally, having fully intended to do so out loud. He made no sound, other than a very slight groan, more like a murmur than anything, as she straightened herself further still. Her face was to his left, her eyes closed as she breathed in his scent, a sound not too unlike a purr rumbling in her throat. A light moan of a noise slipped past her slightly parted lips, and she sighed against his jaw. Her fingers roamed over his stomach lightly, as if to avoid causing pain, and her left leg brushed firmly against his own, continuing in her 'inspection'. She continued to roam upward, smelling him, and another purr left her…

That was when Tom felt her tongue against the side of his face, and he tried to recoil at once. Instantly, the hand that had been wandering his stomach lifted, and clamped over his mouth, effectively pushing his head back to the pillar, keeping it still. Licking up, she let out a sigh against his face as she lapped the blood from his skin, which had flowed from the gash at his temple. He moaned, uncomfortable and somewhat revolted, against the silencing palm of her hand, face screwed up, his breathing intensifying. Tall as she was, she could persist in her somewhat 'vampiric' act almost up to the wound the blood originated from, finally taking her tongue from his face as Tom moaned again.

She stroked her hand away from his mouth, and the spy released a thoroughly uneasy sound like a shuddered gasp. His eyes opened slightly, but didn't look to her. She had succeeded where the others had failed; her simple, more or less painless act had disturbed him more than the torture of the others of her company, and he swallowed dryly.

Magdalena laughed softly, a whisper of a noise, before she sighed again. Tom heard the yearning behind the sound, and closed his eyes again. A cold sweat broke out down his back, and he shuddered slightly again. The werewolf leaned her body into his again, her face so close to his that he could feel wisps of her hair tickling against his brow and cheek. The curves of her body pressed against him, and she brought her other hand from the pillar's width to Tom's bound waist. Her fingers toyed just above the rope, and Tom inhaled sharply at the contact, keeping his eyes closed as his heartbeat kicked up a notch. Magdalena's warm breath washed over his face, and her left hand stroked almost curiously back to where his neck met the very edge of his jaw, below his ear, teasing through the dishevelled locks of hair. Her fingers roamed downwards, lingering at his collar.

"Your scent…" she whispered, leaning her face a fraction closer to his, moaning lightly as she leaned. Tom winced heavily as she unwittingly applied pressure to his bruised and broken ribs, keeping from making any sound lest she interpret it as any kind of reciprocation.

_Please, get away from me…_

His voice refused to work. It was like something had reached down into his throat, and torn away his ability to form words so that he might verbally reject her. With his body bound tightly as it was, he couldn't push her away. The way she pressed her leg between his essentially robbed him of a target, her body positioned in such a way that a kick would only strike air; that, or he wouldn't be able to lift his leg sufficiently enough to lash out. He could only tense against the pillar, and hope against hope that she would get the hint.

Somehow, he doubted she would respect the unspoken plead even if she _did_ interpret it right.

"It's intoxicating," she whispered against his jaw, parting her lips just enough for Tom to feel them. Before he had even made to jerk his head away, she had pulled her face from his jaw line, and lifted it somewhat. He clenched his jaw in a feeble show of defiance, and opened his eyes to take in her face at close proximity; her blue eyes stared deeply into his, and she seemed to freeze, studying his gaze so intensely that he nearly broke eye-contact.

Before he could even form a thought, the hand at his waist lowered, over the rope, and brushed down firmly. Tom, caught off caught, sucked in a breath sharply, and squeezed his eyes closed. Not a second later, he felt her lips against his, kissing him fiercely and all but pinning his head back with the motion. He tried to fight against her, a low sound like a groan of protest forming, but being overwhelmed by the growl that rumbled like hungry thunder in the back of her throat. When he tried to jerk his head away to the side, her hands both lifted to catch tightly in his hair, locking him in place as she fulfilled her desires. Her growl trailed off into a purr of a noise, and she forced her tongue into his mouth, over his.

Tasting his own blood, he grimaced, almost tempted to _bite_ her to get her back and away from him… before he realised the potential ramifications of such a rebellion. Disgusted or not, he wasn't about to knowingly infect himself with lycanthropy from her veins if he happened to draw blood. Her kiss deepened, and she pressed into him further, her leg parting both of his with ease and causing him to all but whimper against her, eyes shut tightly at the very idea of what she might do to him, powerless as he was to stop her. Her fingers wove in his hair, catching at bloody knots and tangles and causing his closed eyes to water fiercely. Her taste flooded his mouth, and he tried again to fight her. His struggles barely registered, but the growl rose again, with a somewhat commanding twist in the right side of his hair. Instinctively, he stopped his struggling. He had no choice but to allow her to continue, disgusted though he was. Her hips pressed against his waist, and her left hand loosened from his locks as they lowered, fingers stroking over the side of his face as they dropped.

As her hand stroked down his chest almost possessively, she parted her lips from his just a fraction, the fingers still twined in the right side of his hair. Just slightly, he opened his eyes to look at her almost pleadingly; all but begging her to stop. Still, her hand sunk lower, and in a low, husky voice hinted with animalistic longing, she said to him, "We should have tied you to a chair…"

Tom's eyes screwed shut and he fought against another whimper as her hand worked further down, catching over the binding rope as it went. She growled faintly against him as she laughed just briefly, adding before pressing her mouth to his again, "… Or a bed…"

_**To Be Continued…**_


	5. Collide

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed the last chapter, and I'm very glad you're all enjoying it as much as you seem to be :) That makes for one happy Clez. The somewhat-adult-content continues, obviously, into this chapter. The prompt for this chapter ended up being 'Green'; you'll see why.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE: COLLIDE**

Her tongue invaded his mouth again, and she pressed her hips into him as her hand pressed down. She heard his weak groan against her, and revelled in its sound, growling in return as she deepened the kiss, craving his taste and smell. The coppery tang drove her inner animal wild, and it longed for more, while her more womanly desires were tearing at her powerfully.

For a human, he _was _rather appealing…

His helplessness only drove her wolf further and further into wanting madness, howling and pining for more, and she felt him tense noticeably against her, trying to lift a leg to push her away any way he could. She smiled predatorily into the kiss, and leaned against him meaningfully. She didn't want to have to punish him for misbehaving…

After all, she wasn't trying to hurt him, per se. Granted, she was only really there to please _herself_, but there was nothing stopping him from trying to enjoy it as well. She applied pressure with her roaming hand, and she heard his heart thunder in his chest, the reaction satisfying Magdalena more than the captive knew. Whenever he tried to pull himself back or away, she would twist her fingers into his hair, to silently command him to stop. His struggles would only last a second or two after the somewhat crude but effective chiding. She knew there was one thing he could do to stop her, if he really was so desperate; after all, if he was so eager to get her away, he could simply bite down… but she knew what that might mean for him.

Parting her lips from his teasingly, hearing him pant heavily but briskly, his face a mask of discomfort and useless pleading, his light eyes closed, and she grinned. Idly, Magdalena wondered if she could get away with it… her blue eyes roamed slowly to his neck and shoulder, and she bit lightly on her bottom lip, feeling the wolf claw at her in her mind, begging her to do it. If she went through with it, maybe she could ask to keep him…

Oh, it was so tempting.

Another murmur of a noise reminded her that she had allowed herself to get distracted, and a purr of a sound rattled in her throat as she looked to his face. Small beads of perspiration dotted his brow, and his chest heaved irregularly. Magdalena's smile widened; she hadn't lost her touch.

* * *

_Oh god… please stop…_

Every muscle in his body had tightened to the point of aching, and behind the second pillar, despite the damage, his hands had clenched. Head back against the beam behind him, he let out a low breath, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut. He'd tried to shove her away as much as possible with any movement he could summon in his legs, but her position rendered such attempts fruitless. Despite his efforts to do otherwise, all he could feel was her hand, and how low it was… and how insanely uncomfortable it was making him. A very small part of the agent wanted to verbally _beg_ her to stop, but he couldn't do that… any submission was a weakness he couldn't afford, if the _League_ weren't on the way. He hoped beyond hope that they were close by, and would show soon.

Fighting a gasp, he creased his brow heavily and tried to hang his head. She permitted him only a fraction, before she was kissing him again, forcing her heated desires onto him once more. A low sound caught in his throat, and he tried futilely to get her away. Her hand did not rise, and she made no move to stop her attentions. Mentally, Tom cried out in frustration, wanting nothing more than to kick her, _hard_. He remembered smashing the vase into her head in the burning house, and he wondered fleetingly if this was her revenge.

The fact that he almost wished she was _physically_ torturing him made him shudder somewhat, and in the back of his mind, he cried out again.

Distinct pressure from her hand drove a rather weak moan out of him, and she pulled back again, her lips never far from his as she watched him in his reactions. Even without opening his eyes, he knew she was smiling, like a thrilled predator; she was weakening him… he knew that, and no matter what he thought, or tried to tell himself, or yearned to do… he couldn't stop her.

"God…" he gasped, face twisted in distress as she released her fingers from the side of his hair; a small blessing. Her other hand still did not lift, and he dropped his head forward, trying to fight against something that felt frighteningly like a sob. To think that she could do this to him, so effortlessly… it was almost more than he could bear.

"Ssh…" Her free hand stroked down his face in a feigned tenderness, and Tom weakly tried to lean his head away. "Don't fight me," she told him in a low voice, leaning into him again so that she could whisper into his ear. She almost nuzzled against him, and he fought against the weak sound again, pulling his own head up and back, feeling it hit the wood. His chest rose and fell quickly, and he could hear the rushing of his own blood in his ears. His heart raced in his chest, causing his ribs to burn, and his lungs to ache as he panted heavily.

Tom was mere moments away from breaking down enough to literally asking her to stop, when there was a sound at the door, from outside. Magdalena's hand lifted, and Tom sucked in a heavy, relieved breath, slumping against the pillar somewhat, even as she pulled her body from his. The barricade to the makeshift cell swung open, and there stood Abernathy. He looked from Tom, to Magdalena, and the spy almost groaned when he saw the male werewolf's eyes wane to an eerie, almost-white colour. Somehow, he had a feeling he knew how this would turn out.

The larger werewolf stalked dangerously into the room, gaze moving from one blonde to the other, before he finally dragged his eyes completely from Magdalena. As Abernathy landed his intense glare on Tom's face, the spy realised the source of the anger. He may have been recovering from Magdalena's own unique brand of attack, and still in pain from previous torment, but he knew jealousy when he saw it.

_Shit… just what I need…_

The thick-set werewolf closed the distance, coming up right in front of Tom, who straightened himself against the pillar, trying to control his breathing as much as possible. Magdalena simply watched, silent. Abernathy inhaled deeply next to Tom, who closed his eyes and shivered slightly, trying to decide if it was from the cold, or the situation… or a combination of the two.

A growl rumbled next to Tom's left ear, and he sighed wearily, hanging his head a fraction; Abernathy knew.

"Oh…" the male werewolf grumbled in little more than a whisper, "… she _likes_ you…" The vividly light eyes angled to meet Tom's weak gaze, and in a heartbeat, there was a deafening crack. The spy gave a cry in surprise, and jerked his entire head to the right, trying to twist the rest of his body as well to keep it safe. The large blade had embedded viciously into the solid wood of the pillar mere inches to the left of where Tom's head _had_ been, and it was only after a few shocked, truly fearful moments that he realised Abernathy had aimed to miss.

Collecting what was left of his pride, he straightened again, trying not to show his trepidation, and keeping his eyes focused ahead. He looked at neither werewolf, but he could feel both sets of eyes boring into him. The male was still treacherously close to Tom's bound figure, but he made barely the slightest sound; even his breathing seemed to fade away beyond the range of Tom's hearing. Very slightly, he trembled again… waiting.

He didn't have to wait long.

With the force of an anvil, the werewolf's fist rammed up and into Tom's side, completely slamming the wind out of him, and leaving him shaking with agony, and messily slumped against his bindings. He tried to breathe, anguished tears burning behind closed eyes, and attempting to fight against the sensation of his entire torso breaking apart piece by piece. Abernathy's blow had been brutal, as well the werewolf knew. Still looming dangerously close, he snarled again, and tore Tom's head up and back, cracking it against the pillar without a second thought.

Instantly, Tom's awareness was robbed from him, and he gave in to darkness.

* * *

Abernathy watched the human's consciousness leave him almost instantaneously, and sneered. He glanced briefly to Magdalena by his side, and then wrenched his large blade from the pillar with ease, but not without wanting to plunge it into the 'special agent' immediately after. Resisting his urge, he inhaled deeply, to calm his rage. He would get his turn, like everyone else. Forcing himself not to look at the blonde female, he growled quietly, to command her out of the room ahead of him. She'd wasted her turn with the captive — in his opinion — and she had no one to blame but herself.

The very thought of her giving him the kind of attention he'd craved for himself… it made him sick to his stomach, and he glared hatefully at the insentient human as he backed away from him.

_It'll be worth the wait_, he reminded himself as he heard Magdalena retreat from the room altogether. _You can make him scream and beg for mercy later, and it'll be worth it._

Letting his eyes flash supernaturally once more, he closed the door behind him.

* * *

Paws padded over the dirt ground, combining natural stealth and experience in order to let the creature pursue without being noticed. Once, the body had frozen, bestial but intelligent mind certain that the woman had faltered. At that point, the two beasts had gone their separate ways, so they could track their quarry more effectively. Left alone, the younger animal was relying on everything his senior had taught him, and what he had learned for himself. Memories and lessons flooded his instinctive mind, and his bright eyes never left the small group of four beings.

'Humans', he had decided, would be an inaccurate term.

The woman was no human; he could tell that without getting up close and personal, and the man trailing at the back…? He had no _body_, let alone a _head_… how could he be human?

It was as he was fighting to decipher what this last strange individual was that one of his powerful paws landed on a fallen twig.

The loud snap echoed through the night.

* * *

On the other side of the path, buried in the thick trees and choking shadow, the other creature's eyes widened, and he sunk down in the foliage, so as to be overlooked, even as the female's eyes raked the surrounding area. The group had come to an immediate halt, and he held his breath with a mental curse. Part of him urged to charge over to the other of his kind, and reprimand him, but even if he _could_ do so without being detected, he probably wouldn't; he didn't have it in him, despite having been hardened by trials of the past. He knew how dangerous the world was, and whether or not he had asked for the responsibility, it was up to him to make sure his companion learned all about it too… and didn't get himself killed in the process.

The ringing of metal carried to his ears, and his ears flattened against his skull as his jowls lifted. His eyes blazed with feral, instinctive hate; if the bitch laid one finger on him…

* * *

As soon as the crack had resonated through the otherwise still air — devoid even of birds and insects that usually filled the night with small, somewhat comforting melodies — she had torn the daggers from her belt, in a smooth, almost fluidic but utterly instinctive motion. She was on the lookout, and every sense tingled in anticipation, just waiting for the next noise… the next sound that would betray the location of whatever was following them. She drank in the night's scent, and growled quietly at the back of her throat. 

She should have known.

"Er… Mina?"

"Quiet," she hissed, eyes a fierce red, and as the men watched, her rich locks curled around her face, shoulders and chest, betraying her temperament. Her vampire nature was steadily taking precedence, and she closed her eyes. She took everything in, from the smallest rustle of leaves, to the breathing of the others near to her. She filtered through the sounds, until her senses caught hold of the one she had been hunting for. Her lips curled up just a fraction into a smile.

_There you are…_

And in the blink of an eye, she had exploded into her cloud of screeching bats, and reeled off towards the trees to the left of the path they had been taking. Mina didn't even look back; simply heard the men giving chase. Nemo's sword was torn from its scabbard, and she thought she heard Skinner curse as he withdrew the knives he'd claimed. If Jekyll pulled his weapon, she didn't hear the evidence, but only hoped he would defend himself if and when the time came. It wouldn't do to get himself wounded… when they found Tom, they could very well need his expertise.

Of course, her reasons for wanting Jekyll to remain unscathed were not entirely focused around her concern for Tom. It went unsaid that she cared deeply for each and every member of the elite team; they were her family now, or the closest she had to one, and the very notion of losing one was unacceptable.

She heard the flight of their stalker before she saw it, a large form bursting out from the bushy concealment of the foliage, breaking twigs and leaves away as its shaggy coat caught against them. Heavy, taloned paws rattled over pebbles and thundered against the dirt of the woodland floor, and though the beast possessed supernatural prowess and speed… Mina's bats carried her faster still. She streaked after him, a fearsome, frightful sight to behold as her eerie 'servants' carried her over the ground. The animal scrambled and leapt over logs and boulders, claws raking their surfaces and leaving deep, vicious gouges. She heard it panting, and picked up the sound of its racing heart; the way its blood roared through its veins. She could see it, gaining on the animal quickly now; the necessity for it to clear obstacles that she simply flew over had slowed its pace, and enabled her to close distance. She would be upon it soon.

It had a dark coat of insulating, protective fur, a rich, almost-black-brown in colour. Muscles rippled under its large frame as it fled from her cloud of bats, but it made a critical mistake when it risked an amber-eyed glance over its broad shoulders to spy its pursuer.

The large animal stumbled, and Mina listened to the sound of cracking branches and the heavy body rolling to a messy, but definitely halt in the dirt. She lunged on the opportunity, sweeping from her pursuit and landing firmly not far away from its scrambling form. If she didn't know better, she could have sworn it was _afraid_ of her. Briefly, she wondered if she was really so fearsome… before she realised this beast had never intended to challenge her; it wasn't a fighter.

She _almost_ felt pity for it, twisting her daggers in her grasp, as she advanced, wary of it despite her apparent advantage. It wouldn't do to get cocky, and land herself an injury; who knew the affects of lycanthropic infection on a vampire? Mina Harker certainly did not.

The sounds of the rest of the _League_ catching up to the scene carried through the air, but she blocked them out, watching the stocky head turn to her. The brilliant amber eyes widened, and it twisted. Even as she watched, the lupine body started to shrink. Before her very eyes, the features of the huge wolf gave way to the clearly panicked visage of a human. A _young_ human at that… or so he seemed to be. If she had to guess, she would have assumed he was little more than twenty, with tousled dark brown hair falling around his youthfully masculine features and into his equally brown eyes, wide as they were. She heard the sounds of his swift breathing, even as he turned over in the fallen leaves to try and scramble away from her, and the glinting silver daggers in her hands.

"You will tell me _exactly_ what I want to know," she hissed as she moved, actions precise, towards him, "or things will get very… _uncivilised_…"

It hadn't escaped her notice that, contrary to myth and legend, he wasn't naked; his transformation hadn't rid him of his clothes. He was dressed in somewhat grubby and scruffy trousers and shirt, with a dark jacket and thoroughly scuffed boots. Investigation on such an anomaly could wait, she told herself. After all, myth and legend also insisted vampires could never walk in the sun; Mina was a living contradiction to such a 'fact'; half-vampire or not, she was still evidence that not all fables of such a nature could be believed.

The now-humanoid werewolf lifted a hand, forming a word, before his eyes widened even more and he tucked into himself, as if bracing for a blow. Mina blinked, realising all too late what had caused such a peculiar reaction.

A huge body slammed full-force into her, throwing her completely off her feet, through the air, and into a tree.

So much for having the upper hand…

* * *

Skull throbbing as if about to shatter, he groaned, low, and at length. Consciousness was returning to him all too soon for his liking; the longer he was out, the more of his captivity he missed… but, apparently, he wasn't going to be allowed the small reprieve that came with the darkness that had overwhelmed him as a result of the vindictive cracking of his head against the pillar. Forgetting his positioning for a moment, he moved to reach with a hand to inspect the struck area, and was instantly reminded of the impossibility of such an action; his hands were as securely bound as they had been before his blacking out, and he hissed, the broken bones burning in response to his foolish movement.

Taking in as deep a breath as he could, he felt the strong wave of discomfort ebbing and flowing from his left side, where Abernathy had struck up and into him ferociously, as if to slam an internal organ from the outside. Tom coughed with a grimace, wondering if it was worth hoping the savage punch hadn't broken something _else_…

Slowly and carefully, he lifted his head, waiting a few moments before even thinking about opening his eyes. He was bracing himself; taking his time and delaying the inevitable. He knew what he would see when he opened his eyes… so why wait?

Resigning himself to reality, he opened his eyes, and instantly recoiled as much as his restraints would permit, in shock. His head struck harshly against the pillar again with the vehemence of his reaction.

"_Jesus_…"

_**To Be Continued…**_


	6. Drive

**Author's Note:** Got the new chapter here for you, and thanks once again to those who read/reviewed the previous one. The prompt for this was 'Insides'. A new name (two, actually) appears in this chapter, and trust me, I _have_ noticed the similarity to one that's already featured; don't worry. It wasn't intentional, but by the time I realised, it was rooted in my head, and I'd gotten too attached, heh. Sorry if it bugs any of you though O.o

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX: DRIVE**

The back of his head ringing with pain from the crack against the wood, Tom stared, wide-eyed and startled.

A pale face with blue eyes and contrasting dark circles under them stared at him blankly, as if she was devoid of emotion or feeling. She was so still, it seemed impossible that she was even breathing. Her dark hair was twisted back from her features in a rough clip, which allowed tendrils to fall down eerily around her temples, brow and neck, tracing over her shoulders like tentacles. Slowly, the eyes blinked, and she tilted her head just a fraction.

"Annelise loves to make an entrance," said a feminine voice from the doorway, edged with a laugh. Managing to tear his eyes from the silent werewolf before him for just a moment, Tom saw Chantal leaning near the entrance to the room nonchalantly, her arms crossed over her lean frame. Her dark eyes regarded him with amusement, apparently having enjoyed his reaction immensely. Still recovering from the shock, Tom didn't even think about hating her for such a thing. His eyes were already back on Annelise, who was still motionless. "It's one of her little quirks," Chantal continued, wandering away from the doorframe, and over towards the two standing close to each other. Arms still crossed indifferently over her chest, she looked Tom up and down, as if inspecting the damage already inflicted upon him by those of her pack who had 'visited' him so far. The spy was finding it hard to take his eyes from the oddly vacant ones of the younger werewolf standing before him so intently.

"But she has a few of those," the older female persisted, moving around the pillars to which he was bound, taking her time so she wouldn't miss any injury or bruising that was obvious. Her voice sounded pensive almost, as if she were considering his condition deeply. When she came around on his other side, she made a small noise, as if thinking something over. "As you'll find out…" She was looking to Tom's eyes; they flickered to her briefly, and then moved back to Annelise.

It wasn't that he was fascinated by her… he, oddly, found himself deeply wary of her. It was the way in which she stood there, unmoving, and without a sound. Something about her seemed so ghostly almost, and it sent a cold shiver up and down his spine.

"I hear Magdalena paid you a visit…" Chantal continued, but in a significantly lower tone. Tom noted the change, and his eyes moved to her at once, cautious of the edge in her voice. "That's not her _usual_ style," the dark-skinned woman said, keeping her eyes on Tom's, "but no matter. The rest of us will just have to pick up the slack." Her lips turned up faintly into a smirk, and she glanced to Annelise.

"Have fun, you two," she told them almost mischievously as she turned back for the door. "And try not to make _too_ much noise…"

With that, she was gone, her words still lingering in Tom's mind as he let his eyes fix on the still-present werewolf. He wished she'd just say something… _anything_. Her silence was unnerving him more than he liked. Briefly, he wondered if she was mute, before she opened her mouth, and spoke; her voice was calm… _too_ calm, and almost distant, as if detached from the mind and working of its own accord.

"Did you know," she began, her gaze lowering to his chest as she spoke, "that the human body is a map of pressure points, and delicate nerve endings…?"

Her eyes rose once more to meet Tom's.

Suddenly, he found himself wishing she hadn't spoken at all.

* * *

Skinner nearly fell face-first into the dirt as he caught his foot on another root, and stumbled impressively, managing to avoid slamming into a tree by some stroke of luck, as he pressed on with the others. They could hear the crashing from just up ahead, and at the back of the group of three men, Skinner could just make out Mina's bats dissolving into her as if they had never existed.

They were just about to break through the line of trees when a huge form burst out from the other side of the little clearing, and collided with the vampire, the force of the impact enough to break bones in any mere human. Skinner's eyes widened so much he thought they might fall out of his head, even as he skidded to a stop and slipped on some fallen leaves, landing on his rear, and quite thankful he was wearing the trench coat at the time; it cushioned the blow, if only a fraction. He watched, shocked, as the woman struck a tree, and fell to the ground, her silver daggers lost from her grip. Immediately, his brain registered the danger of the situation.

Scrambling to his feet as Nemo levelled his sword, the thief pulled out the silver knives he'd claimed from Mina's collection, as Jekyll stumbled back a few steps, withdrawing a vial of his elixir from his jacket. Holding it in his hand, his light eyes were fixed on the large creature that had ambushed the vampire from the side, even as it opened its maw wide, and roared at the downed form of Mina Harker. She wasn't unconscious, but she was clearly sore, collecting herself enough to push up from the ground. Her red eyes turned on the threatening beast, and she growled quietly.

"Oi!" Skinner found himself shouting, regretting it instantly. True, perhaps the creature would realise it was now outnumbered and bugger off, but he'd also called attention to their presence, and no doubt how 'tasty' they all looked. Vibrant green eyes narrowed, its silvery-white coat catching the moonlight softly as it turned somewhat on its hind legs, towering over them. Large canine teeth were bared and the tall ears flattened as it drew itself up and bellowed in the men's direction.

_Yipe_, the thief thought, a nervous chuckle escaping him. Of all the times for his resolve to fail him…

Wheeling back on Mina as the vampire surged up from the ground, the looming werewolf snarled in anger, and moved to strike.

"_Tobias_! No!"

* * *

Tomas Dakar had tried to scramble to his feet the moment the huge, light-haired werewolf had barrelled out of the trees, but his companion's movements had taken him by surprise, and the subsequent collision with the woman had all but knocked him right back over again. He half-lay on his side, one hand raised with wide eyes as he felt his heart thunder in his own chest, fearful of what might happen. His scruffy brown hair fell in his eyes as always, ignored after years of failed attempts to tame it, short of having it cut.

The silver-haired wolf halted, though its large fangs were still bared; one arm lifted to club and slash, with its wicked talons flexed. The thick chest heaved angrily, and the emerald eyes blazed impatiently. Still, it waited…

The woman, for her part, looked ready to explode into action, her wild, curled hair all around her face and shoulders as her eyes, flooded red as they were, locked on the wolf she was faced with. Though she had dropped the threatening daggers, she still looked a formidable opponent… and Tomas himself had seen the flock of supernatural bats she had summoned. He was convinced now of her nature; she was a vampire, and quite a powerful one at that, if what he had seen was anything to judge by. Something had taken hold in his gut, and wouldn't release… not until the other wolf backed down and made no threatening motions; he was frightened. The vampire had experience, and clearly wouldn't hesitate to prove that.

"Tobias," he repeated, his accent softening the name slightly, despite his desperate tone. He could see the men out the corner of his eye, and was on edge; if they moved to interfere, his instincts would kick in and he wouldn't hesitate to attack, but he would rather not have to cause anyone harm… despite his 'condition', he was rather against violence. Many people found that laughable when he said as much in conversation, if they knew what he really was.

Of course, Tomas didn't talk to many people…

"Please…" he persisted, managing to rise into a crouch, arm still raised in an insisting, pleading motion towards the silver-haired wolf. The green eyes finally moved from the vampire, and lowered to the crouched 'human' at his side. A faint growl rumbled, and then he gave a rough sound like a snort. Giving his thick coat one final shake, he started to recede into himself.

Despite himself, Tomas couldn't help but sigh in relief.

* * *

Mina watched, eyes losing their fierce red shade, as the wolf started to shrink back to normal proportions, the faint cracking and reshaping of bones and cartilage heard in the clearing. The space in the canopy gave them enough moonlight to see by, and she kept her gaze on the werewolf as he returned to human form. Like the other of his kind, he had managed to retain his clothing throughout the transformations to and from the beast. As the first individual warily rose to his feet, she noticed this second werewolf was shorter, by a few inches, with lighter hair of a kind of dirty blonde. His eyes were narrowed somewhat, fading from shocking green to a more normal shade of the same colour, still carrying a kind of defensive, ferocious edge. He was discreetly muscular in build, as opposed to his leaner companion, and studying the two, Mina reached the conclusion that the lighter, shorter individual was older.

"Who are you?" she demanded of the two males, even as the other _Extraordinary Gentlemen_ hesitantly approached, weapons still withdrawn.

The lighter-haired male turned his gaze on them as they closed the distance, and a very real growl rattled in the back of his throat.

Mina glanced to her friends, and after a few moments — though begrudgingly — they concealed their blades again; Jekyll, for his part, pocketed his elixir once more. "Who are you?" she repeated, looking from one 'young' man to the other.

It was the taller of the two who spoke, in a definite American accent, though more subtle than Tom Sawyer's and without the southern lull; "I'm Tomas Dakar, and this is my brother, Tobias." He inhaled deeply. "We didn't mean any harm." The speaker's name only reminded her of the urgency of the situation; their friend was still unaccounted for, and in unknown danger.

"Speak for yourself…" the one identified as Tobias grumbled, turning his gaze back on Mina as if she had done him a great injustice; she found she rather disliked the individual already, and not only because he had thrown her against the tree mere minutes ago.

"Be quiet," the younger of the two muttered hastily to his sibling, and looked to Mina again. "I'm sorry if we startled you. It's just… you're new to the area, and—"

"You thought we looked tasty?" quipped Skinner dryly from the other side of the werewolf brothers.

"No!" Tomas Dakar answered swiftly, shaking his head as if appalled at the very notion. "Nothing like that." Glancing to his fellow lycanthrope, he continued, "We weren't sure if you could be trusted. We were only going to watch you; that's all."

Feeling her hair straighten somewhat as she listened, Mina sighed. A large part of her told her not to trust these siblings so quickly; after all, they _had_ been concealing themselves, and one of them had attacked her. Then again, if they were truly brothers, she could understand the older werewolf's instinct. He felt he had to protect his sibling, at all costs. He had simply acted as any protective animal would.

"And who are _you_?" Tobias asked darkly, his tone laced with mistrust and impatience.

"My name is Mina Harker. These are my associates: Captain Nemo, Dr. Henry Jekyll, and Rodney Skinner." She glanced to the two, eyes narrowing somewhat hopefully perhaps as she thought over the notion that had entered her mind suddenly. She hesitated for only a moment, and then relaxed her shoulders, as if to show she meant no harm herself now that they could apparently be trusted. "Perhaps you could help us…"

* * *

Annelise was far from the largest werewolf of the group, but Tom had long ago learnt that appearances could be deceiving, and that he should never 'judge a book by its cover'; not only was it naïve, but it was dangerous. He watched her suspiciously, the words she'd said to him making him increasingly nervous about her intentions, which were far from healthy, he was sure. Her eyes were staring into his again, and he waited for her to continue, seeing in her gaze that her mind was elsewhere.

"You can study for years," she persisted, her voice as airy and preoccupied as before, "but you can never learn everything there is to know about the complicated anatomy of the human body." Her gaze had lowered again, as if she were staring right through Tom, _into_ him. "All the intricacies and twists and turns; how everything connects and works together… all tied together." One of her hands slowly moved behind her back, and the spy automatically tensed, waiting uneasily for what she might reveal. "I've studied for decades… reading, and… dissecting…"

Her words sent a chill through Tom, but he fought against showing any sign of it unnerving him as much as it was. For all he knew, she was trying to provoke a response, to weaken his resolve.

"… But I still don't know _everything_."

She pulled her hand from behind her back, grasping a thin blade of sorts. She inspected it for a moment, watching how it caught the light as her eyes ran from the narrow hilt all the way to its almost spike-like tip. The agent never took his eyes from Annelise's face for long, already more than certain he knew what she would do with that blade. Her words hadn't exactly filled him with confidence.

She took her blue eyes from the thin blade, and looked to him, before letting her gaze wander his form thoughtfully again. She stepped closer to him, even if not by much. He tried to move back, failing instantly as the pillar reminded him of his predicament when it came to movement. He cursed to himself, and focused on Annelise again, as she angled the tip of the strange 'knife'.

"Some parts of the body are more vulnerable to attack," she was saying, almost as if to herself, her eyes narrowing as she tried to decide where to use her weapon. "But… they tend to bleed more… the victim dies of shock as the organs fail."

She'd moved the blade so quickly that Tom somehow missed the signs of danger, and he threw his head back against the pillar again as a cry freed itself from his mouth, gritting his teeth as the tip of the weapon buried in the right side of his abdomen, not far from his hip.

"You have to know where to hit, and how hard," she continued as if Tom's cry hadn't disturbed her concentration at all. "Some places… you can only go so deep…" She glanced up towards him as she removed the weapon, quickly changing her aim, and embedding it halfway; higher up, and to the left of his stomach. He tried to bite back the yell, only suppressing a fraction of the sound before it broke out of him. He looked down at the narrow weapon, making a low noise as he attempted to force the pain back, lifting his head a little. He could feel the slow stream of blood from the first wound, and how his shirt greedily soaked it up; all he could feel of the second injury was the throbbing around the blade. To his surprise, Annelise didn't twist, or wrench the blade, but simply pulled it free.

"Go too deep, and you nick a kidney, or part of the intestine… if you're really unlucky, you pierce a lung." Her empty hand wandered faintly over his torso, searching for the next area to stab. A trickle of blood ran from the second wound, and Tom hissed through clenched teeth, closing his eyes to fight the discomfort. "I hit an artery once…" she told him in a quiet, almost nostalgic voice, eyes fixed on his body. "He bled to death in minutes." She lined the blade up again, below his chest; focusing on what he could feel through the fabric of his shirt, it was almost as if she had lined it up between the ribs. Waiting for only a moment, she pressed the blade in, and Tom gave an abrupt, somewhat hoarse cry again, his head rocking to the side when it couldn't lean back as far as it wanted to go with the pillar in the way. She kept the weapon buried for a time as she added, "I just watched."

_I bet you did_, he thought fleetingly, face twisted in a grimace as she removed the tool from the new wound, watching the red soak into his shirt. His waistcoat was draped back awkwardly, inadvertently shifted by the positions of his arms to expose the thinner, white fabric beneath.

Taking a deep breath and shaking her head as if she'd gone off track in her thoughts, she said to him, "_Some_ places on the body… you can just…" Her voice trailed off, and Tom waited.

His yell broke off into a groan as the slender blade pierced clean through his right shoulder, and even as he fought against any more vocalisations of his pain, he felt it break clean through the other side, and scrape against the wood of the pillar beyond.

"… Cut straight through," Annelise finally finished, admiring her handiwork, leaving the agent impaled for a moment to move around and see where the weapon had marked the support beam. "The fleshy areas like the shoulders, or the thighs… they're the best." Returning to face Tom again, she reached up calmly and removed her implement. Opening his eyes after a few moments spent collecting himself, Tom saw the blood on the blade. Shaking faintly, he watched her face, seeing the almost child-like, quiet fascination with which she stared. "So long as you avoid bone and organ," Annelise persisted quietly, "the damage is minimal." Her gaze lifted then, and met his. Tom shuddered faintly, feeling the fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his back and chest as he breathed heavily in discomfort; his torso ached and throbbed from the stab wounds, thin though they were. They didn't bleed for long, or so he thought… but the pain was still there. She'd still broken skin, and caused damage; that was all he cared about.

"The closer you get to an organ," the werewolf began anew, her eyes alight with something like anticipation, "… the more pain it causes."

And right on cue, to emphasise her point, she struck; her blade buried in Tom's body, just above his chest to the left and not far from his collar bone. Tom's yell was loud and instantaneous. He struggled vehemently against the bonds pinning him in place as the agony spread around the embedded weapon. He had thrown his head back once more, not even feeling it collide with the pillar, or the resulting discomfort; all he could feel was the point of the weapon as it moved inside of him, sending bolts of blinding pain through his entire chest, and making him moan, clenching his jaw to keep from crying out again. Angry, anguished tears fought to break free as she leaned closer to him, blade still stuck in his body firmly. "The heart's the worst," she explained. Under normal circumstances, Tom might have retorted sarcastically, but he knew he would show his real reactions to the torment if he so much as opened his mouth; anything beyond a groan was more than he wanted them to hear. He felt her lay a hand further down on his body, motionless for a moment, before she patted against him; it took him a few uncomfortable moments to realise she was mimicking his heartbeat externally with her palm against his torso. "I could've gone closer…"

Wondering briefly why she hadn't, Tom managed to open his eyes. Vision impaired by the tears he refused to release, he locked his eyes on hers, trying to transfer in those few moments how much he despised her, and her kind… how much he wanted to repay the pain and the torment, tenfold…

Somehow, he didn't think he succeeded.

Annelise barely reacted. She met his gaze, and watched him with little more than vague interest. Taking hold of her blade's handle, she pushed down, twisting the weapon upward at an angle. Tom's reaction was kept to a loud, harsh groan for all of five seconds before it become too much. He opened his mouth and let out a loud _howl_, his chest screaming as lightning bolts of agony raced around, attacking each and every inch of his torso and assaulting his system. Annelise only watched, listening to the sounds of his tortured cries; she didn't smile, or laugh… barely even blinked.

Fighting against a strangled sob as his cry finally caught in his throat, Tom slumped, internally begging her to pull out the blade.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	7. One By One

**Author's Note:** And here we have the new chapter, 'at last'. I know it hasn't really been that long, but the rate at which I'm writing this is… a little disturbing frankly. I'm just singly inspired for this story right now — anyone reading this who's waiting for an update on any of my other stories, please bear with me, because they _are_ in the works… they're just being more awkward, muse-wise, than this one O.o The prompt for this is 'Why?'.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN: ONE BY ONE**

"So how does it all work, exactly?"

To say that Tobias Dakar wouldn't trust any of these people as far as he could throw them would have been an understatement. And given that he was a werewolf, who could probably actually throw any one of them a considerable distance… that was saying something. He watched them all warily, and never strayed far from his younger brother's side, instinctively but still fiercely protective. Since they had been alone, he had never let Tomas out of his sight for long, and that wasn't about to change if he could help it. It wasn't that Tomas couldn't handle himself… the younger werewolf just had a habit of attracting trouble that he didn't always know how to deal with. He supposed it was a 'gift'…

"How does what work?" Tomas inquired for clarification as they walked along, heading to the small cabin the brothers were currently occupying so they could talk with privacy, and away from any creatures who might eavesdrop. The taller werewolf was looking at the floating jacket and hat, obviously rather intrigued. Personally, Tobias wanted to slap the hat… just to see what would happen.

"Well… all of it, really. I've heard a good werewolf story like any bloke, but… well…" A sleeve waved at the two brothers vaguely, and Tobias tensed automatically. He only relaxed when the 'man' let his arm drop again.

"What Mr. Skinner is _trying_ to ask," the woman cut in, sighing slightly, "is how exactly all the legends are apparently incorrect. Any stories I've heard personally have always detailed how a werewolf loses… well…"

"Oh, the clothes?" Tomas, as always, didn't waste time in putting pieces of the puzzle together, regardless of the nature or difficulty. He smiled in a rather boyish manner, nodding his head. "Right, that's a tricky one to explain. Mainly because we don't know _ourselves_." His somewhat lean shoulders shrugged under his scruffy jacket, even as they broke through the dense trees and saw the small building they called 'home'.

"Cosy…" the being identified as Skinner remarked dryly, and Tobias offered him a narrow-eyed glare.

"So, is it the same with all werewolves, then?" Dr. Jekyll inquired as they approached the cabin. Tomas nodded.

"As far as we know, anyway. We've met a fair few, as you can imagine, and none of them ever seem to have to… well, replace their clothes. I guess it's just one of those misinterpretations."

They reached the small house — if one could call it that — and entered. Tobias resisted the urge to lock the door once they were inside, and as his brother went about igniting the lamps and cleaning up any mess in the simple living area, the inevitable question was asked, by Mrs. Harker.

"How long have the two of you been…?"

As always, it was simply implied. In Tobias' experience, the question was _never_ asked in full, no matter who was doing the asking. He rolled his eyes, wondering if all werewolves were supposed to be bitter about their existence.

Tomas turned from shutting the closet, and removed his jacket, dusting it off briefly before looking to the vampire. "How long have we been werewolves?" he repeated, for clarification. He received a somewhat apologetic nod, and probably to the surprise of the group they had recently had the 'pleasure' of meeting, the younger brother smiled. Granted, it was only brief, but it was a very real expression. "Always."

"I-I beg your pardon?" The rather ruffled doctor glanced in Tomas' direction, and then looked quickly to Tobias.

Seeing this as his cue, the older brother pulled in a breath simply, and said, "We've always been werewolves."

"How does _that_ work, exactly?" Skinner asked quickly, his accent slipping a little.

Looking from one brother to the other, the vampire was silent, taking in their expressions obviously, before Tobias saw the flicker of understanding in those blue eyes. "You… you were _born_ this way." It wasn't a question; she'd figured it out.

Tomas nodded, his dark hair tumbling over his brow and into his eyes, as always. "Our parents were werewolves too."

"So you've _always_ been like that?"

"Like _what_?" Tobias challenged, instinctively registering the tone and question as somewhat offensive. He glared directly at the 'invisible man' — as he had been described — and waited for the explanation.

There was a brief pause, in which the floating jacket shifted slightly, as if uneasy under the lycanthrope's gaze. "Well, you know… a bit more hairy than most people."

Tobias growled, and Tomas sighed, chuckling afterwards. "Tobias," he warned, but with a calm smile, "he didn't mean anything by it. Did you, Mr. Skinner?"

The disembodied hat shook back and forth.

As always, the younger brother was too quick to trust, and all too willing to forgive. Tobias had always feared that would be the end of his sibling, somehow.

* * *

He was afraid of her.

Annelise had never really been one to take in the things around her unless she absolutely had to, but right at that moment, his fear was as tangible as the blood running from his chest, soaking into his dirty shirt and staining the skin beneath, as well as the blade of her weapon. She could almost reach out and touch it…

Only when his head dropped forward in something she instinctively recognised as submission did she pull the blade from his body. The angle she'd forced it up at caused the wound to tear somewhat as she freed it, and blood rushed out as if desperate to escape the confines of his body. He was sweating now, and shaking; his body was reacting as any human's would to such attacks. It fascinated the female werewolf, and she watched him as if transfixed.

Looking down from his trembling, recovering form, she admired the smeared blade of her favoured, narrow weapon, touching her finger to its tip but being careful not to draw any blood of her own. She couldn't risk infecting him; as always, they were under strict orders from the Alphas not to transfer any lycanthropy, or to bite, or claw… as tempting as it would have been to see his reaction to such a wound. She almost smiled, but the expression quickly died, as she saw him lift his head a little, as if forcing himself to defy the pain.

Why was he punishing himself more than he had to? Annelise had done this enough times to know that the victim usually blacked out willingly after such torture, but this one? He was fighting it… holding it at bay, and stubbornly putting on a brave face. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him, somewhere between frustrated and confused. He was only making this so much worse for himself…

_Glutton for punishment_, her mind whispered to her, and again, a ghost of a smile touched her lips before dying away. She had time to spare, yet, and if he wasn't going to submit as he probably should have, then she would simply continue. After all, there was nothing stopping her, and she was entitled to this time. All she had to do was ensure she didn't do too much damage, and send his body into shock.

His pain was far from over; she didn't want him to miss any of the fun…

* * *

Chest heaving as it burned madly from the assault, Tom looked to the eerily calm werewolf through dishevelled bangs of blonde hair, feeling his heartbeat as it thundered; he could hear his blood rushing in his ears, and tilted his head uncomfortably as if he could pour the sound out, like water trapped after being submerged. Realising that he apparently couldn't get rid of the sensation in such a way, he rocked his head back up, and tried to shift his position so he wasn't wrenching his arms by slumping against the pillar.

Annelise had taken her eyes from the bloodied weapon to rake her eyes over his form, and Tom could only wait. By denying the unconsciousness that called to him, he knew he was only opening himself up to more torture, but there was one thing he couldn't deny; if he was going to be stabbed, beaten and who knew what else, he wanted to be _awake_ for it. He refused to wake up and find they'd done something to him while he was out cold… for some reason, that unnerved him more than he thought it should. As much as the agony wanted to break him apart, and no matter the throbbing in his skull, he wouldn't give them that opportunity if he could help it.

He couldn't let them break him that way. After all, he'd gotten himself into this situation, and he would fight it any way he could, even if it ended up killing him… which didn't seem too unlikely at this point, he realised.

The cold blue eyes met his, and she stopped toying with her blade. Distractedly pensive once again, she apparently returned her focus to her 'turn', saying as she straightened herself somewhat, "You know, actually… there's something that hurts almost as much as getting close to an organ _that_ way…" Her gaze lifted to the last puncture wound, and he saw the way she stared at it almost in childlike enthralment. Fighting against a shudder, he waited; it was only inevitable that she showed him anyway. When one of her hands touched near to his waist, he immediately tensed and tried to recoil, reminded sharply that he couldn't even do that. The rope fought against him immediately, tight around his arms and body, and he grimaced at the discomfort; he could already feel bruising from the restraints.

Her gaze wandered down his side, and she angled her head, as if looking for something. Too late, Tom realised what was going to happen, and he could only try to tense in preparation, even as the sharp point of the blade pierced clean into his side. He felt it push into him, and his agonised yell echoed back to him in the room, his knees begging to give out on him from the new, blinding assault. Colours flashed and danced madly behind his tightly closed eyes, and he tried to tell himself he couldn't feel the edge of the weapon brush against a rib, his voice failing him as the cry died roughly in his throat again. Wracked with the new wave of pain, he fell back against the pillar completely, trembling fiercely as blood fought to rush from the wound, no matter the width of the opening. She kept the blade in for a time, looking up at his suffering expression. He managed to look down at her, unable to hold back the expression of complete and utter anguish as he met her gaze. He leaned his head back against the support behind him, looking down awkwardly at his side as her own eyes drifted to the new injury.

"It'll only bleed a little," she told him simply, _slowly_ pulling the blade free. "That's why it's so important to use _just_ the right kind of weapon…"

Tom groaned heavily as she finally finished removing the tool.

"It has to be just the right size…" she continued in that distant, peculiarly thoughtful tone as she lifted the blade enough for it to catch the light in front of Tom's face. He pulled his head back as much as possible from the vicious tool, and looked briefly to her face as the hot flow of blood trickled down his side, soaked up by the shirt, and eventually, the rope he was tied with. "A bigger blade can be fun," she explained, "but it causes too much internal damage. This way?" She admired the blade she so 'enjoyed' using. "This way… you get all the wounds without the body going into shock… minimal blood loss…" she said to him quietly as an actual, eerie smile disturbed the frightening calm of her features, "… maximum pain."

Sighing raggedly, Tom let a miserable frown come onto his face; he didn't permit it for long.

_Fight it_, a voice said in his head, at the back of his mind. _Fight **her**._

Swallowing the foul taste that was starting to steadily form in the back of his throat, he inhaled awkwardly, but deeply, and pulled his head up again, looking to her meaningfully.

She wouldn't break him…

* * *

Having finally moved on from the awkward tension of apparently offending Tobias, it was silently agreed upon that Skinner would keep his participation in the discussions to a minimum. It was probably for the best, after all; he did have a knack of rubbing people the wrong way by saying the simplest of things, even if he didn't really mean it.

"So," she began, having seated herself on a simple, somewhat stiff armchair at Tomas' indication, "why exactly are you in the area? Correct me if I'm wrong, but you are both quite obviously American, and… well, rather a long way from home."

The younger brother was seated opposite her on another equally-aged chair, his stoic and guarded sibling standing just behind him to his right. "We haven't lived in America for a few years now," he explained. "We left about fifteen years ago, and we haven't been back since. We've travelled all over Europe, and this is where we've ended up… for now."

There was something in his tone that Mina couldn't deny; it was almost like a kind of melancholy, but a sadness he was denying to himself at the same time. She wondered what could have caused it, but knew better than to push. "Fifteen years?" she repeated. A faint smile lasted only a second on her features, and she shifted impatiently in her chair; their friend was no closer to being found, let alone saved, if all they did was talk about the past.

"That's right."

"You don't look a day over twenty, if you don't mind my saying so," Jekyll remarked, not far to Mina's right.

Tomas chuckled, nodding. "I get that all the time."

"So, if I might ask… how old _are_ you?" Mina knew some 'immortals' could be rather testy about this subject, and of course, he had every right to refuse her an answer. She couldn't help but be curious though.

"I'm about…" Tomas' eyes narrowed thoughtfully, "one-hundred-and-eighty-three?" He glanced up at Tobias, as if for verification, and the older brother gave a brief, but definite nod. "Tobias was twenty-five when I was born."

"… Wow."

Skinner hunched down apologetically and sheepishly into his dusty chair when eyes turned in his direction. "I'm bein' quiet," he told them briskly, waving his sleeves for them to continue.

"We weren't born in America," said Tobias, surprising Mina by actually offering his explanations. "Our parents were from Europe originally."

"That's why we came back," Tomas added in agreement. There was something in his eyes Mina caught in the light, and Tobias' past tense certainly hadn't been missed.

"So, your parents…" she cautiously ventured.

"Dead." Tobias was painfully blunt as he replied, and it clearly made the younger brother uncomfortable to be reminded so candidly.

"I'm sorry," she said, quite automatically.

Behind her, Captain Nemo sighed lightly, and then cleared his throat, standing to his full height and proudly as always. "If you'll pardon my frank interruption, Mrs. Harker…"

"Of course." She nodded, ashamed she had allowed herself to waste so much time. She looked to the brothers. "When you were stalk— _following_ us out in the woods," she said to them, "we were looking for a friend. He's gone missing."

Tobias lifted his head up and back a little, eyes narrowed as he listened. Tomas leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees as he let Mina explain, and she could see in his dark eyes that his mind was busy. She wondered if he was always thinking.

"We were investigating a kidnapping when we lost track of him, and the last time I caught his scent was at the scene of a fire. There was… there was werewolf blood on the ground, and spent shell casings, from one of his weapons." She looked from one sibling to the other, waiting for any sparks of recognition in their gazes, seeing nothing in Tobias' and finding it rather frustrating. "There was evidence of a body being dragged…" she added quietly, and then fell silent.

Tomas looked back at his brother, brow furrowed. When he looked back to Mina, he paused to take in a deep breath before speaking, "We smelt the fire, and heard the shots. Your friend _definitely_ killed one of them."

"We didn't exactly find the body, but we could smell it," Tobias added almost gruffly.

His brother nodded. "Before we could even get close enough, there was smashing glass, and the smoke." Tomas looked deeply thoughtful, and a hand hovered near his chin pensively. His shoulders shrugged, and he looked grimly to Tobias. "If… if your friend really did kill one of them, and they got hold of him, then…"

A heavy, unnerving silence descended on the _League_, and the werewolf brothers. When Mina could stand it no longer, she looked imploringly from one to the other. "Then _what_?" Tobias looked down at her seriously from where he stood beside his brother, his face deeply serious and unmistakeably grave.

"Then you're already too late."

* * *

Resting her head back against her lover's broad chest, Chantal allowed her dark eyes to close, and inhaled deeply; comfortably, she took in all the scents in the large room they had converted into a kind of living area; there were makeshift chairs, one or two old tables, and even an old sofa they'd managed to dig up out of the storage in the warehouse. It was a suitable accommodation for now. The pack slept little. Their being werewolves enabled them to run on less sleep than a human might, and they took advantage of the enhancement, always awake, alert and energetic to some degree.

She and Tyrone shared the sofa languidly, with the powerful female resting back against her mate's body cosily. He said very little, as always; he usually only summoned his voice to give an order, or reprimand, and neither were in order at the present time. When alone with Chantal, he was different, but the Alpha female didn't mind that he wasn't very conversational at the best of times. Whenever he _did_ speak, it was always important, and that was what mattered. She was more the voice, either way. It didn't stop the pack from fearing Tyrone, all the same, and that amused and contented her. Any good Alpha struck fear in their subordinates.

Glancing around the room casually as she relaxed with her mate, she saw the others busying or distracting themselves however they saw fit. Pike, for his part, was perched up on a crate, always wanting the best view of everything, and hunched up into an unbelievably small 'ball' for a male of his size. It was hard to believe that, when stood at full height, he was almost six-feet tall. He was far from the tallest of the pack, females included, but he wasn't a small individual to say the least. He was just… peculiar, and they'd known that from the first moment they had encountered him.

Magdalena was conspicuously absent, but Melody had been sent out once or twice to ensure she wasn't anywhere near the captive… again. True, it had been Magdalena's turn at tormenting the human, but the way in which she had _spent_ that time still confused and irritated Chantal. Of course, naturally, her wolf had already found a way to blame the human instead, and that had spared Magdalena any kind of vicious punishment… she should be grateful.

Melody sat in a corner with Felipe, discussing something in low tones with curiously wicked expressions. If the tall, strong female was flirting with the Spaniard, she was being subtle about it; the two were more like fellow warriors than anything else, and that pleased the Alpha. It wasn't that she was against any in her pack pairing off, but when they made it painfully obvious, it was rather embarrassing. The only one guilty of such noticeable affections and attentions was Abernathy… the way he quietly but clearly pined after Magdalena made Chantal want to lock the two in a room for a couple of hours just to make the male confront the situation, and _do_ something about it, rather than biding his time.

The male in question sat at a table with Quentin and Sable, playing some sort of card game. They laughed and spoke in frequent intervals, but not constantly; if they were betting anything, she couldn't see it, her eyes drifting to Marissa as the shortest female — and therefore the shortest member overall — sat in the spare seat around the table, head and eyes focused downward; in her hand, she held Quentin's sharp flick-blade, and was meticulously carving into the grungy wooden surface, sending small shavings around whatever she was marking into the table. The males paid her little attention; it didn't disrupt their game, and therefore, mattered very little.

And then there was Julius… who had staked his claim on keeping watch over the warehouse, from the roof. He was up there now, keeping a strict vigil. Chantal trusted their second-in-command to do his job better than Theodore had at the last lair. The idiot had gotten himself killed; Chantal wouldn't mourn for him… none of them would. They had no sympathy for the inept or careless.

Even before she heard it properly, she turned her eyes towards the door. A loud, masculine but thoroughly agonised cry carried to them through the abandoned corridors, making a few grins show on faces… Chantal's being one of them, albeit more subtly than those of her pack members. She glanced briefly to her mate, who showed his own satisfaction at the sounds of suffering from the human responsible for invading their 'territory', and killing their incapable scout. Regardless of the fact that the human had probably done them a favour in killing Theodore, it was the principal of the thing; he'd killed a pack wolf. Unlike their last 'victim', he'd actually drawn first blood… which meant he'd already condemned himself.

Of all the members of the pack, probably including herself and Tyrone, she had to admit that Annelise was probably the most skilled at her 'art'. Even though she was younger than at least half the werewolves present — including the watchful Julius above their heads — she seemed to have the technique so perfectly honed… she knew exactly what to do, and where, and for how long. Not that she didn't admire some of the others' methods, but Annelise knew when to stop… and her process was certainly more interesting to watch… not to mention _listen_ to.

"Sounds like she's enjoying herself," Chantal murmured coolly, smiling peacefully as she settled back against Tyrone further. Merely giving a low chuckle in agreement, he stroked back her dark hair and let her get more comfortable.

* * *

"It's almost a shame I can't get to your back…"

The werewolf seemed completely unperturbed by Tom's attempt to twist away from her, even with the blade buried near the top of his right thigh. She gazed at his face contemplatively, eyes narrowed somewhat. Again, he'd thrown his head back, and was now battling against a sudden wave of dizziness that had come over him as a result. His face was twisted into a heavy grimace, and his mouth dropped open after a while, no cry escaping, even as she pulled the blade free; instead, he panted loudly, shifting his leg experimentally. As 'promised', it didn't seem to have done too much damage, but it still pained him when he moved it more than a little in any direction. And it bled. All in all, he knew that was what was making him feel light-headed and nauseous at that moment.

The blood-loss.

No matter how 'little' each wound bled, it was adding up. It wouldn't kill him, but Annelise was effectively weakening him, he knew. He only hoped that he could recuperate enough to hold out for whatever torture came after this. And hopefully, he'd be left alone for a little longer…

"If I could get to your back," she continued as he recovered, his hair hanging more limply around his eyes now from perspiration, "… well, you have to be a lot more careful. Wounds in the back can be more dangerous…" She looked almost disappointed that she'd been robbed of the chance to show him just what she meant. "In fact… if I hit you in just the right place, near the spine…" She chewed on her bottom lip, looking up at him. "I could paralyse you in a heartbeat."

The cool, plain way in which she said this was worse than the fact itself, Tom realised. He found himself wondering what trauma Annelise had suffered in the past to warp her mind this much; how could she talk about this sort of abuse without so much as changing her expression? It was intimidating almost… to think that people like this actually _existed_. She made Moriarty look tame…

Thinking back on Moriarty only reminded Tom of Quatermain, and as he closed his eyes, the werewolf's unsettling words still in his mind, he tried to think of what the hunter might tell him, if he were here. Of course, if he were here…

_Then you wouldn't be tied to a pillar, and bleeding from a dozen places…_

Sighing weakly, Tom forced his eyes to open again, waiting, disorientated, for them to focus. In a shaky, quiet voice, he found himself asking of her, "What's _wrong _with you…?" It was the pain talking… he knew that; it didn't stop him from realising almost instantly that it was probably a bad idea.

Annelise _smiled_.

Tom shivered in response, deeply disturbed by the expression, and he pulled his head back a little, even as her blade came up under his jaw, angling it back further. His eyes closed tightly, and he all but held his breath, waiting for her to stab upward.

Finally, she told him, in little more than a hiss, down his ear, "I'm _evolved_…"

_**To Be Continued…**_


	8. Nowhere Fast

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry! _:cowers:_ Don't kill me, please O.o Merh… I didn't mean to take this long with the update. My muses just all up and ignored me for about a week, and I've been working on this chapter for a few days o.O

Also, I'll be on 'hiatus' for two weeks from Monday 27th March, as I'll be on holiday, staying with friends in America :D Don't send me too many death threats? Heh. Alrighty. The prompt for this chapter was 'smell'.

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT: NOWHERE FAST**

She used the blonde hair to tilt his head upward, angling her own downward to see his eyes, closed as they were. His breathing had levelled out enough for it to be obvious that he was no longer conscious, though it wasn't without a struggle that he did so; the way his chest rose and fell wasn't normal… there were no regular, spaced intervals. Even in unconsciousness, he was in pain; suffering.

Annelise released the somewhat damp locks, and let his head fall again, dropped over almost to his chest. She silently admired the damage she had caused, and how the red had soaked into his shirt, making strange little patterns that only she could see. A ghost of a smile teased at the corner of her lips, and she sighed softly, dragging the sound out, before resigning herself to the inevitable.

Her fun was over.

The human had finally succumbed, after resisting the darkness for as long as he had… if she hadn't been so intent on driving him into unconsciousness, she might have been impressed by his resolve. As it was, she was almost disappointed that her 'turn' had come to an end.

She didn't have to turn her head to know who was standing at the doorway, silent though their approach had been.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Quentin asked quietly but mischievously almost, from the doorway.

Blue eyes slowly turned from the unaware human, and met the blonde werewolf's across the room. She didn't speak in response until she had turned herself from the captive, and started walking towards Quentin, and subsequently, the exit. She still held her blade in her hand, lifting it a little so that its bloodied length caught the light. She didn't even look at the male werewolf as she passed him with an ethereal grace.

"Very much…"

* * *

The male werewolf watched the eerily quiet female — not that she was ever any different — pass him by, smelling the blood on the blade before he even saw it. He smiled crookedly, turning his eyes back into the room, and to the wounded human bound to the pillar. Pacing into the room a little, he stared at the figure, watching the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, and his eyes waned to their feral shade of cobalt blue as he stood there watching. The coppery tang of the human's blood called to him, and he bit down on his bottom lip to keep from giving in to any kind of predatory, instinctual hunger his inner animal told him he was feeling.

Despite himself, he growled.

Shaking his head faintly, he roused himself from his lupine frame of mind, and his eyes returned to their human shade as he looked the prisoner up and down, judging how he should best go about spending his time with the captive when he regained consciousness. After all, it was _his_ turn next, and he wasn't about to throw it away by applying too much, too quickly; he wasn't like Magdalena… he knew his time was precious, and he wanted to get the maximum satisfaction out of it. Perhaps, in her own way, Magdalena _had_ satisfied herself… she'd just gone about it in a very peculiar way.

Quentin growled again at the thought of the female werewolf having any interest in a human… particularly _this_ one. Though he had his fair share of — if only physical — things in common with this individual, Quentin knew he was superior. By far. He was stronger, faster… _better_. He had cast off his human existence years ago, and would never go back; would never even think of going back… not after all he had gained. Quentin knew he was — as Annelise liked to put it — evolved.

Anyone who thought otherwise, and said as much to his face, never lasted very long.

* * *

Nemo was the last out of the cabin the brothers had apparently been staying in, but the younger sibling reached around behind him, and made sure to close and secure the door. It wasn't long after that that the group were walking away from the small building; tensions were high, and it seemed the race was on. Time was, apparently, not on their side.

Tobias and Tomas Dakar had shared, briefly, with the _League_, their knowledge of the 'pack' responsible for Agent Sawyer's disappearance. If their assessment of the situation was accurate, then it was much direr than any of them had previously anticipated. They had explained how they had encountered some of the unit before, and not under the best of circumstances… in fact, Tobias now bore a vicious scar down the length of his back after such a meeting. It was obvious that this group of werewolves were far from agreeable. If the brothers' explanation was anything to go by, then it was quite possible that… Tobias was right.

But Captain Nemo was not about to give up hope for his American friend. He had always been the kind of man to stick by his companions, and respect them; he didn't abandon them to their fates so quickly, and he certainly didn't give up hope until he knew for definite, one way or the other, what had happened to them. Tom Sawyer was a good friend, and one that Nemo — along with the rest of the _League _— was not about to leave to a grisly end. Nemo knew that Agent Sawyer would do nothing less for any of those around him now; Skinner, Mrs. Harker, Dr. Jekyll…

The _League_ was more than just an elite team. The _League_ was a unit… they were friends, and they helped one another; they supported one another and provided aid. No matter how that aid needed to be given, it was always offered. This was no different.

If the brothers' account was correct, then they were potentially facing almost a dozen werewolves, all with the kind of fierce, natural prowess and wolf-forms that they had seen in Tobias out in the woods. But if it meant saving Agent Sawyer, then Nemo knew he wasn't alone in his determination; they would all do everything in their power to save him.

Even if it was only so they could give him the burial he would deserve…

* * *

How much time had passed since his losing consciousness — again — was something that escaped his knowledge. He'd been in and out of awareness so many times since being overpowered in the burning building that he wondered about the effect it could have on him, beyond the obvious. Of course, if there was one area where Tom Sawyer's expertise was seriously lacking, it was in any and all things medical. He knew how to dress a wound in an emergency, certainly, and he could assess damage in the field, but he was no doctor, by any means of the word. And then, of course, it was perhaps always more difficult to assess the damage inflicted upon your own body than upon someone else; your own body could lie to you… either that, or stubbornness clouded judgement.

Tom only lifted his head when he had 'stood' there, more or less awake, for about five minutes. If there had been anyone else in the room, they would have announced themselves by now, one way or another. He knew how fond they were of making entrances, or frightening him, so it was progressively, and carefully that he dared to lift his head at all. He made sure to check the ground in front of him for feet; he still wasn't sure how he'd managed to miss Annelise standing in front of him, silent though she had been. Had they really affected him so much already?

Idly, he wondered who was next to take their 'turn'… and if any of the others would be as bad as the one who had just essentially knocked him out. As he took a cautious deep breath, he felt the aching, stinging wounds in his body, and grimaced heavily, not entirely sure he wanted to look down to try and see how bad it was. He had, initially, been trying to keep count of the injuries Annelise had been inflicting upon him, but not long into the session, he'd lost count — he had been too overwhelmed with his reactions to keep his mind on such a task. Leaning back — not that he had much choice — against the hard, cool pillar, he closed his eyes, and breathed through the discomfort. Or at least he _tried_ to do so… at this point, it was entirely possible that there was too much for him to 'breathe through', as he'd taught himself to do some time ago. It was a somewhat stubborn trick many agents taught themselves so that an injury in the line of duty wouldn't completely ruin a mission. Tom was such an agent, and of course, his time with the _League_ had helped him develop this 'skill'… but then, he'd never had this kind of experience with werewolves before. He wasn't sure he wanted to know how many people, spy or otherwise, _had_ had this kind of experience, with werewolves or otherwise.

It was several more minutes before he built up the courage to try and loosen his bonds again, fighting against the burning pain in his hands and impaled shoulder to do so, shifting as much as possible in his struggle. He kept himself as quiet as he could, glancing to the door frequently as he worked, to make sure that he hadn't been discovered. Despite knowing he wasn't making any progress, he kept trying… if he didn't keep trying, then he knew he would be giving in, and he couldn't do that. Giving in… would mean admitting defeat, and that was something he had never been able to do. Not well, at least.

Gasping quietly when he aggravated the break in his left hand, he bowed his head over, and kept trying, gritting his teeth against the building pain. Breathing heavier as the discomfort built, he kept his eyes closed, focusing on the task, no matter how useless it seemed; he had to keep trying, no matter how wasted the effort might turn out to be. Then again, even if he _could_ get a hand free, he knew there was still the rope around his arms behind the first pillar binding him, which would make any attempts to untie himself all the more difficult… especially with broken bones in the hands he was trying to use to do so.

"Shit…"

The curse was quiet, and more gasped than actually spoken, Tom's body screaming at him to stop twisting and straining, and all too quickly, he had exhausted himself. He slumped back against the pillar, brow furrowed miserably as he panted, the silence of the room making the sounds seem all the more harsh. Leaning his head up and back against the solid wood behind him, he swallowed the bad taste, and let out a quiet groan. Opening his eyes slightly, he checked the door. It was still closed and, presumably, locked. Sighing heavily, he let his gaze wander the room, no longer trusting such 'obvious signs'; just because he hadn't heard the door, that didn't mean it hadn't opened and permitted an enemy.

It was only after a thorough scan of the area in his range of vision that Tom could 'relax'; he slumped back against the pillar again, sighing once more, shakily, as he closed his eyes.

He was alone.

* * *

Large paws padded stealthily over the dead leaves, barely making a whisper of a sound as the sizeable animal wandered. Its tailless form moved with such astounding grace and predatory agility that Mina couldn't help but watch it. The dark brown hair bristled every few moments as a breeze played through the trees, and the black nose would lift and angle into the draught. Tall ears would twitch, amber eyes would narrow, and then the search would continue without further hesitation.

The _League_ walked behind Tobias, who, in turn, walked not far behind and to the side of the large lupine form. Tomas had transformed some twenty minutes ago, telling them that the heightened senses of his wolf form would give them the extra advantage. Jekyll had asked how much difference there really was between a werewolf's human and animal form, in terms of senses and their accuracy, and he had simply received one of Tomas' quiet, knowing smiles. And then the youthful-looking lycanthrope had transformed. Now, he led them through the trees almost like a hunting hound, muzzle browsing over the ground in search of scents and tracks to follow. Skinner, for some reason that would not be questioned at this point in time, had had something of Tom Sawyer's on his person; namely, a handkerchief. Mina hadn't even known the spy carried them until the thief had insisted it belonged to their American friend. Tomas, in wolf form, very much like a hound, had used the item to get a scent, and was currently trying to catch that as they moved along.

Suddenly, his form tensed. He backed up two or three paces on large paws, hunched down, and pushed his nose through the leaves intently; focused. Mina heard him take in a deep, concentrating breath through his nostrils, and then his head lifted. A kind of rumbling growl sounded, and Tomas's wolfen head turned to Tobias as the older brother closed the distance on the transformed lycanthrope. Crouching, he looked his brother in the eye, and Mina listened, fascinated, as the brown wolf made low noises. He was communicating…

Not long after, Tobias stood, turning his eyes on them. He looked from one member of the _League_ to the other, settling finally on Mina. "We've got a scent."

* * *

Green eyes lifted at once at the sound of the door handle, and Tom felt something in his chest tighten. He wasn't afraid… he had to tell himself that. If he admitted to the fear, he would giving in to it, and that would only give the werewolves something more to use against him. Clenching his jaw, and feeling the ache of the bruises on the left side of it, he watched the doorway as the portal presented itself, permitting a figure.

It was the male blonde who entered. It was the one who had been 'nonchalantly' toying with a flick-blade when Tom had 'met' the pack. It was the one who had helped Felipe, by holding the spy's head back to the pillar, and gagging him at the same time.

It was Quentin.

"I hope you're well rested," the male werewolf said, almost jauntily, as he closed the door behind him. He had an odd bag in one hand as he waited for the affirming click, before he paced casually across the room. Setting the back down on a nearby table, he glanced to Tom. "If you're not, well… I'd hate it if you robbed me of some of my time." He shrugged somewhat broad shoulders beneath a light shirt. "I'm fairly easy to get along with, I like to think, but… I'm not a morning person, and I'm a very sore loser." He chuckled after saying this, as if he had just told a very witty joke. Tom could only watch him, wary and suspicious of his intentions, which he already knew to be less than savoury; he couldn't help but wonder what was in the bag… and he told himself that it was perhaps better if he didn't know.

Quentin wandered closer to him, looking him over. He inhaled through his teeth, shaking his head before laughing quietly. "I told you about her, didn't I?" He smiled at Tom, looking into his eyes with a quirked brow. The spy couldn't quite decipher it… was it pitying, or mocking? Perhaps both?

Tom tensed when the male werewolf reached up to the first fastened button of his shirt, and breathing a little quicker all of a sudden, he looked down at the hands, and then to Quentin himself. The other blonde man didn't waver in what he was doing. He simply unfastened each button, tugging the fabric roughly from beneath the binding rope around Tom's waist, before turning his back without an explanation, and leaving the fabric hanging open.

His attention was back on the bag, dragging Tom's focus with it. The lycanthrope's actions had him even more on edge now; why had he done that? He was fairly certain he didn't want to know _that_ either. He watched as Quentin opened the bag, removing something he hadn't quite expected. In fact, what _was_ it? It looked like a bowl, but… Tom couldn't quite understand the significance. The lingering haze in the back of his mind wasn't helping either. He watched, confused, as the werewolf poured something clear into it, smelling the bottle afterwards; he pulled a face, and then chuckled to himself, glancing briefly to Tom, as if to check he had the captive's full attention.

Reaching into the bag with one hand, he gestured with the other to Tom's now-unfastened shirt. "I'm not worried about ruining it," he shared, smiling as he continued, "… well, Annelise took care of that, already." Removing something else from the dark confines of the satchel, he opened a little box, pulling something from it. He glanced at it with a shrug, and Tom's eyes widened slightly, before he'd even heard the strike of it.

Quentin held the lit match over the bowl. "But you see… if the shirt sets on fire… well… I wouldn't want to kill you, would I?" He dropped the match towards the bowl. It hit the liquid, immediately igniting the entirety of the contents; bright, hungry flames rushed to the edges of the container, coiling upward and casting wicked shadows over the werewolf's features. "Not yet, anyway." His eyes turned on Tom… and Tom saw the now-blue glow. That was no mere trick of the firelight, he knew.

Tom closed his eyes, clenching his jaw again as he took in a deep, aching, shaky breath. When he opened them again, he could only stare at the flames.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	9. Let It Burn

**Author's Note:** Well, I'm back from my vacation, and have a new chapter of the story for you. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and I hope you all enjoy this part as much as you seemed to enjoy that one. This wasn't as long as I had hoped it might be, but I still think it's a reasonable size. The prompt for this instalment was 'fire'…

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE: LET IT BURN**

Nose to the ground, the large brown werewolf paced steadily over the path. His ears twitched at every little sound, and his bright eyes watched the ground, occasionally flickering around the surrounding area to check for danger. His brother, in human form, walked at his side, keeping pace easily. Tomas had caught the scent, and now, he was doing his best not to lose it. The speed with which the pack had travelled was surprising, especially since they had obviously had a captive in tow. The Alpha — a particularly ruthless male, if Tomas remembered the individual correctly — would have wasted little time, he knew, and it was this that concerned the werewolf now following the trail. Their haste hadn't made them sloppy, by any means; quite the opposite… he was worried about losing it and not being able to pick it up again. They had kept their pace brisk, and as such, he was having trouble sticking with the right scent.

_Focus_, he told himself as he hunched lower to the ground, inhaling the stenches and aromas that swarmed around him and the others. The _League_ were behind the two lycanthropes, waiting with baited breath for more developments. Tomas grumbled, frustrated.

"What is it?" he heard Mrs. Harker ask in that cool tone of hers.

"The scent is faint in places," Tobias answered for his brother as the busy werewolf kept his mind on his task. "It fades in and out."

"Don't lose it," the vampire said, stoic but insistent all the same. Her concern was so thick that Tomas could practically feel it, even at such a distance.

"He _won't_." There was a defensiveness in Tobias' tone that the younger brother knew very well. Tobias had always been protective, and Tomas knew there was nothing that would ever change that. He didn't exactly _want_ to change it, but he couldn't help but feel belittled sometimes. After all, he was perfectly capable of defending himself.

Of course, as soon as Tomas Dakar thought this, a huge form exploded from the shadows and bodily slammed him into the ground.

* * *

Tyrone was a confident werewolf. This was no secret, especially to those who really 'knew' him. Chantal, naturally, knew him better than anyone, and as such, was comfortable with any decisions that he made; she supported him completely, and he expected nothing less. Quieter though he was, he was by no means less dominant than his mate. He was very much the leader, and she knew this. There had never been any doubt.

As such, when he had decided to send out a scout, there had been no hesitation from any of the others. In fact, there had even been a volunteer from the members as to who this scout would be. They had known from the smell that the boy hadn't been alone. They may have _caught_ him alone, but that meant little; he had been in the company of others not long before. Tyrone had been able to detect at least three other scents on the boy's jacket alone… one of which troubled him. At the same time, it disgusted him; it had been familiar, and not in a welcome manner. Though he couldn't put his finger on it, he didn't trust it by any means.

In a werewolf pack, all members were considered equal below the Beta, and above the Omega. Those higher in rank than Pike, and lower in status than Julius, were all considered the same in terms of prowess and capability. They were all exceptional fighters, efficient hunters, and talented killers. In fact, Tyrone accepted nothing less from a pack member; he expected the best, and he got it. As such, it had been no surprise when a female had stepped up for the task. The Alpha male hadn't been fazed by the offer, in fact; she was often restless, and he knew she loved a good hunt… she loved to track. Of course, she loved to kill more, but the hunt was half the fun. And Tyrone had actually given her permission to kill anyone she came across who might pose the pack a threat. There had been no shadow of a doubt as to such a decision. Threats to the pack could not be tolerated.

Melody had departed some twenty minutes ago, not long after Quentin had left the room. Annelise had returned, satisfied and content… and with the scent of blood hanging heavily around her. Pike, for his part, hovered close to the female, intoxicated by the smell, and staring at her in wonder. He didn't want details, exactly, but he had always been that way; so transfixed and enthralled by blood and death that he barely breathed when in one of his 'trances'.

Stroking Chantal's un-braided hair back from her face, he heard her sigh softly, knowing her eyes were closed without even having to look. He watched his pack, and took in everything around him. An Alpha male was always aware, and Tyrone was a perfect example of an alert, powerful leader. He knew every detail of his surroundings, and nothing less would do.

In fact, even from where he sat… he could smell the fire.

* * *

Simply seeing the look of fear on the captive's face was almost enough to sate Quentin.

_Almost_.

Chuckling to himself, he considered the flames and then reached into the bag again, never taking his gaze from the dancing heat and light. Transfixed by it though he was, he was still aware of the human's racing heartbeat, and quickened breathing. He could smell the blood and sweat, and it only made him more eager. He had been waiting for his turn, after all, and there wasn't anything that could rob him of that now. Glancing to the bound spy, he smiled; the expression was suitably cruel, even as his eyes flickered to their lupine shade once more. A chilling blue, they were a perfect contrast to the vicious heat not three feet to his right. Pulling his hand from the bag again, fingers wrapped around his 'prize', he locked his gaze on the human's, studying him almost.

"Best thing about fire," he said, conversationally, but still with an obvious edge, "is the heat; you get all the pain, but the heat cauterises the wound, fighting off infection." His eyes wavered to the flames, and then back to the captive again, noticing the expression… not quite defiant, and yet, he seemed to be combating his fear. His stubbornness would be the end of him, Quentin decided.

His gaze deviated to the object in his hand then, drawing the human's eyes as well as he lifted it somewhat in his grip. The long metal bar was slightly tipped at one end, but not enough to make it into any kind of spear, or poker. The surface reflected the light of the fire, casting eerie shadows over Quentin's face as he considered his weapon. Testing the weight in his right hand, he inhaled calmly, and then held the tipped end in the flames. The length that he held was coated in a protective kind of material that would fight off the heat and keep him from burning his hand. "This won't take long," he said casually, smiling crookedly at the young man not far away.

* * *

Green eyes fixed on the flames, and the bar held within them. Looking up briefly into the face of the werewolf who held the weapon, Tom swallowed dryly, shifting his weight very slightly. Barely feeling the pain from the wounds Annelise had created, he was too captivated by the fire… and what it meant… what Quentin meant to do. Tom wasn't an idiot… he knew _very_ well how the werewolf planned to use the elements combined, and the previous statements didn't exactly boost his confidence; this wasn't a bluff, or any kind of cruel joke.

Ever since the incident in Mongolia, a near-miss though it had truly been, Tom's resolve around fire had been somewhat lessened. At the time, he had shown only anger, and defiance, and Skinner's sacrifice had spared him from an inevitable, excruciating end… but ever since, he hadn't been able to abide the thought of having it too close to him, and especially in any kind of intentionally harmful manner. Even as he stood, back flat against the pillar behind him, he felt his heart racing madly in his chest at the very sight of the flames.

Frankly, he was terrified… and he couldn't shut that off; he couldn't stop the fear, and he didn't know how to fight it.

And worst of all, unlike Mongolia, he couldn't run away. He couldn't hide, and he couldn't shield himself…

Face impassive, Quentin pulled the bar from the dancing flames, admiring the softly glowing metal. His expression shifted subtly, and his eyes lifted; his feet carried him across the floor, and he neared Tom, who tensed instantly. His body ached and protested to the tension, but he couldn't hear it… he could only hear the blood pounding in his ears. His eyes closed tightly, dreading what was about to come…

* * *

"_Tomas_!"

The older of the two brothers had only smelt the other powerful scent as the wind had shifted, sweeping it towards the group. He recoiled instinctively as Tomas was barrelled into, and thrown to the ground with bone-crushing force. A resonating yelp rent the air, and a deep, throaty chuckle followed. In the wan light from the moon piercing the clouds and the tree canopy, Tobias could see the attacker; his night-vision penetrated the darkness and shadow, and locked on the offending form.

Large in size, with a sandy-coloured coat of feral fur, it bore vicious, long claws on all four feet. Its canine skull housed snapping jaws loaded with sharp fangs, and dark, almost-black eyes glinted hungrily. Its shoulders rolled, the spiky 'tufts' of fur standing on end as its ears flattened. It pinned Tomas with ease, gripping him savagely as he tried to fight for freedom and his own jaws snapped at the attacking werewolf, trying to find flesh to sink his teeth into.

Tobias was already shifting by the time the blonde wolf drew blood from his brother. Tomas howled, and tried to buck himself free of the other lycanthrope, but to no avail. The sound of bones cracking and cartilage shifting went unheard by the struggling werewolves, but the moment he was transformed, Tobias snarled deeply in his throat. The sound rattled through his broad chest, and as soon as the enemy wolf looked at him, he opened his maw wide, and bellowed; a challenge.

The attacker did not relent her — he had determined its gender by this point, from the smell — 'prize', only gripping Tomas tighter, and drawing more blood from his shoulders and biceps. The brown lycanthrope beneath her wriggled and snapped at her, but she kept her head and chest up and out of his reach. With a frustrated growl, the younger brother twisted his head, and slammed his jaws closed around one of her arms. She yowled in surprise and fury, opening her own mouth to retaliate… even as the older brother collided with her forcefully. The three werewolves, locked together physically, tumbled brutally across the ground, slashing and biting at one another. The female attacker's claws tore out of Tomas' shoulders, and dug four wicked red lines across Tobias' back as they rolled, but he did not submit. If anything, it drove him into even more of a fervour, and he clamped down tightly with his jaws around one of her thighs, sinking his own claws into her side and gripping with all his might. Tomas took his chance, and bit down hard on her meaty shoulder, his powerful teeth piercing through the protective coat of fur and finding vulnerable meat and bone. The bloodied female howled in pain, but still tried to struggle, attempting to gouge deep wounds in the brothers with her talons.

Out of nowhere, a silver blade flashed, landing under the female werewolf's jaws and pressing against her reinforced throat. Even with the layer of blonde fur, a slight hissing could be heard; the blade was burning her. The icy voice of Mina Harker was the only sound as the attacker quieted, realising the threat of the weapon; "Transform, and we will spare your life. Tell us what we want to know… and you will be free to go." She pressed the blade that little bit harder against the lycanthrope's neck; the two brothers still gripping tightly to other parts of the body to keep her down. "Refuse, and we kill you now." There was no bluff in the vampire's tone… and Tobias admired that. But he didn't let it cloud his judgement. At the slightest sign of danger, he would release his grip on her leg and side, and tear out her throat, even if it meant throwing Mrs. Harker aside; blade and all. Tobias wouldn't let anything hurt his brother… no more than he had already been hurt, at least.

But it seemed such drastic measures would not be necessary. Beneath the weight of the two males, her body started to shift, and shrink. Becoming more slender, the fur started to recede and replace itself with clothing. She was transforming. Reluctantly, he pulled his jaws from her thigh, leaving vicious injuries; they would take hours to heal, and hopefully, prevent her from running before she had given them some much-desired information. Tomas pulled his large teeth from her shoulder before she had finished changing forms, but kept a paw pressed down in their place, pinning her with ease. He panted, blood trickling from his own shoulders. Tobias could feel the wounds across his back, but paid them no heed. He'd had worse in his time, and there were more pressing matters at hand.

It wasn't long before her transformation was complete, and she lay pinned on the dirty ground. Her blonde hair spilled out around her head, and her cold eyes looked up at the brothers' wolfen faces hatefully, before turning on the vampire who still held the knife. A calculating smile slowly appeared on her face, and in a cruelly triumphant voice, she said, "You'll never find him in time…"

* * *

The second the heated bar touched against his body, he roared in pain, throwing his head back against the pillar with such force that by all rights it should have robbed him of consciousness. Apparently, he wouldn't escape this newest round of torture so easily; the blow simply caused his skull to throb even more madly than it already had been, making the burning in his side all the more intense. The tight rope around his waist made recoiling from the assault impossible, and Tom clenched his teeth so hard he thought his jaw would break from the force. His eyes watered so suddenly, and so fiercely that he knew opening them would be useless; he wouldn't be able to see.

As Quentin pulled the bar away, he chuckled triumphantly. "You see?" Tom kept his eyes closed as the werewolf continued, "All the pain, and none of the mess."

The agent felt his side tingling, and yet at the same time, going numb. He groaned, his body shaking, and hissed through his teeth. Panting, he finally dared to open his eyes, staring up and above Quentin's head to the grimy ceiling. Vision impaired by the tears that had formed, he tried to fight the discomfort, knowing before he'd even started that his efforts would be wasted. His body had already been so badly assaulted that the continued, vicious attacks did nothing for his resolve; each new strike weakened him that little bit more, and the pain was dulling all his senses.

In his time at the Service, he'd never _seen_ an agent who'd suffered torture before, but he'd heard the stories. Several of those who had come before him had either died or been relieved of duty permanently because of the extent of their injuries, and the… other damage caused; the effects that couldn't be seen — those beneath the surface. This was what troubled Tom more than the physical damage, he supposed… the psychological trauma that the torture would result in.

"And you'd be surprised just how much the human body can take," Quentin explained, cocking his head as he watched Tom battle the agony. Wandering back over to the fire he'd lit, he hovered the bar back in the flames. "Of course, you'll find that out soon enough, don't worry."

Rocking his head forward, feeling the unusual weight of it as he did so, he eyed the werewolf with contempt. Brow furrowed heavily as he tried to fight the uncomfortable sensations swarming through him after the single assault, he let out as deep a breath as he was able to pull in. His ribcage burned like the new wound at his side, and he bit back a cry, opening his eyes halfway in time to see Quentin approaching once more. Chaotic thoughts that had filled his head only moments before were instantly quieted at the impending threat, and he tensed again, trying to draw back from the danger, gritting his teeth as the werewolf drew closer.

For the first time in his life, Tom thought he knew how he was going to die…

_**To Be Continued…**_


	10. Build Up Inside of Me

**Author's Note:** My sincere apologies for the wait! O.O Didn't mean to do that, but I just got caught up in other things. Shamefully, I don't have much of an excuse, but hopefully this update will make up for it… O.o The prompt for this was 'Too Much'.

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN: BUILD UP INSIDE OF ME**

His shoulders and arms burned madly from the torn wounds, but experience had taught him that they would not only heal before too long, but he would survive; it could have been worse. If Tobias hadn't intervened, then it most likely _would_ have been worse, Tomas realised, and it caused him to glance fleetingly to his brother. The two werewolves still loomed over the female they had overpowered, with Mrs. Harker's help, and even though she seemed cocky and unfazed, Tomas couldn't help but wonder about her real frame of mind. The wolves in the pack they were tracking hardly seemed to have the best grip on reality, and it was entirely possible that many of them, if not all, were insane to some degree.

Tomas recognised the scent of the one they pinned down, but couldn't place a name. It wasn't important, he knew. The only thing that mattered was getting some answers out of her.

"We'll never find him in time?" the vampire repeated darkly, applying the edge of her blade to the female werewolf's neck. Now that it wasn't protected by fur, the hiss of the burn could be heard more easily. Tomas' ears flattened back, reacting instinctively to the silver's damage. His jowls lifted just a fraction, but not in Mina Harker's direction; his eyes were very much still focused on the downed female lycanthrope. She tensed, but did not cry out at the punishment. "We'll see about that."

"He'll be dead before you ever get to him," came her snapped retort, and Tobias growled deeply, pressing down on her shredded thigh, perhaps somewhat sadistically, all things considered. She groaned in discomfort, but again, did not yell. "Do whatever you like with me — if I don't return, they'll tear him apart."

"We'll see about _that_ as well," Mina growled, blade still in place. "How badly is he hurt?"

Tomas' eyes looked up briefly to the vampire, but didn't waver from their main focus for long; he had to concentrate on their captive.

"On the off-chance that you rescue him," the lycanthrope prisoner began in response, "his injuries will kill him…" She grinned coldly, her eyes filled with a menace and glee like that of a cruel child. "He's broken…"

It was the younger brother's turn to growl, and he bowed his head closer to her face to bear his fangs in her direct line of sight, reminding her not to gloat. Irritably, she didn't seem perturbed…

Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Oh, Tomas… still so quick to anger…"

Ears flattened back against a coppery coat of thick fur, and his growl cut off. His fangs showed themselves more prominently though, as if in a silent threat. His warm breath played over her face.

"It'll be the death of you," the female whispered derisively. "You _and_ your bastard brother."

And with that, she moved, even with the blade pressed to her neck. Her hand shot up, tensed powerfully, and slammed into Tomas' snout and muzzle, snapping his mouth shut dizzyingly. Blood poured from his assaulted nose, and trickled from between his clenched jaws; with a quiet yelp, he staggered, stumbling to the side and down to the ground. Lights flashed and danced madly behind eyes that were squeezed shut after the blow, and he felt his body collide with the dirt heavy enough to partially wind him. He could taste the copper in his mouth, and down his throat, and a dry, deep cough parted his maw roughly.

A roar ripped through the canopy of the trees, and there was the deafening sound of something large and meaty colliding with flesh and bone. Managing to peel his eyes open, still dazed, Tomas saw the female's head snap to the side from a heavy club to the face. Tobias had been moving in for another strike before Mrs. Harker pulled out her second blade, forced to use it in order to warn the older male werewolf away.

"We _need_ her," the vampire snarled insistently, looking down quickly to the female, who, though stunned, was thankfully still alive. Tobias had ripped open a large wound along her cheekbone, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. The red was fading from her eyes as Mrs. Harker looked to the downed lycanthrope, saying to Tobias quietly, "See to your brother."

The rest of the _League of Extraordinary Gentlemen_ were not far away, and even as Tobias moved towards his sibling, transforming as he did so, Dr. Jekyll came closer. Another rasping cough broke out of Tomas. Grimacing heavily, still in wolf form, he grumbled uncomfortably, waiting for the disorientation to pass. Even in human form, her blow had done quite a bit of damage, it seemed, and he hated himself for it. Even after nearly two-hundred years, he was unintentionally relying on his brother to rescue him; watch over and protect him. His ears dropped miserably as he felt Tobias' hand land on his head, and when he opened his eyes, he saw the female staring at him in mocking delight.

_Melody…_

Her name was Melody.

Even with blood still coursing down and around his lupine muzzle, Tomas reacted instinctively to the gloating expression, and with a rattling snarl, he tried to tear forward. _At_ the downed woman. His claws tore viciously into the ground as he tried to find purchase in order to rise, and his maw opened wide savagely, eyes blazing in fury.

"_No_!" The booming voice belonged to his brother, as strong hands twined through dense fur, yanking him back. Tomas' snarl broke off abruptly as his balance was wrenched from under him, and he slammed to the ground with his older brother, feeling the air forced out of him again. Once more, he gave a breathless cough, wincing. Still, even as he sighed, lying almost atop Tobias after being torn back, he couldn't help but realise that it had been for the best. If he had managed to get to Melody, he likely would have torn her throat out in anger, and what then? They would never find the _League_'s friend, and missing member. He would have ruined their chances…

"Easy, brother… take it easy." Tobias wriggled out from beneath Tomas, allowing him to lie on the ground again, a large mess of brown fur and powerful limbs. Keeping his eyes from turning in Melody's expression, Tomas sighed as his brother examined his lupine face for the damage.

"Let me help," Dr. Jekyll insisted, crouching next to the older male werewolf. With only a few moments' hesitation, Tobias permitted the assistance, and Tomas simply lay there as he was checked. It would probably be easier if he changed back to human form, but something not too unlike embarrassment was keeping him from transforming.

* * *

Quentin revelled openly in the sounds of the human's suffering, laughing to himself each time a cry broke free… even a whimper provoked a grin. He remembered what it really was to be a wolf then; to have the upper hand in any situation — the power. He was reminded all over again why he loved being the way he was. Even in situations like this, when the sport of the torture was perhaps lessened by the fact that the victim was restrained, he could truly enjoy himself, and give in to his more primal urges. The wolf wanted pain and blood, and one way or another, it usually got them.

This was no exception.

Endeavouring to walk closer, Quentin used his free hand to lift the human's head by the jaw, angling it upward roughly, checking his condition. He was in agony, but didn't seem close to passing out. Another grin made itself present on the werewolf's face, and he chuckled. "You see what I meant?" he asked the captive conversationally, dropping his head and then mockingly ruffling the tangled hair atop it. "The human body can take so much punishment before it breaks down."

He was getting wrapped up in the heat of the moment. The thrill of causing the damage and getting the reactions he wanted was making him relaxed, and it showed in his expression and posture, and even in the way he spoke; it was lighter than when he had started, and more casual. "And everybody wins. I get to make you scream," he bowed slightly to try and look in the agent's eyes, even though they were screwed shut again, "and you get to learn more about yourself." He chuckled again, turning back to the fire, taking a deep breath as he did. "And didn't I tell you I was fairly easy to get along with?" Glancing back at the human, he saw, finally, that the boy had managed to lift his head again, albeit with a struggle.

_Calm down_, his mind whispered to him in a warning. _You'll exhaust him too quickly._

With a low noise, Quentin watched the metal heat in the flames, and realised he was rushing things. After the first few strikes, he'd simply allowed his enthusiasm to take over. He knew that now, and it would hopefully keep him back from doing too much damage too fast. He didn't want the spy to pass out, or even react too much; he had to keep from doing too much to him, if he could help it. As with every other captive they had had in the past, the killing blow automatically belonged to Tyrone, as was his right as Alpha. The others were allowed their fun, but were never to do too much. It all added up, of course, but if any of them started him on that downward spiral too quickly and too heavily, then there would be hell to pay. Tyrone would be furious.

_So be careful._

Removing the metal from the fire, he turned, taking in another deep breath, feeling calmer already. His childish delight had to pass if he was going to use his time effectively. His body wasn't so loose now; it was more tense, and prepared. All-business…

* * *

Even in his tortured state, Tom noticed the change in Quentin's posture, and could only wonder at what it meant. Trying to right himself against the pillar, and fight back the cloud of ominous fog in his mind, he watched the werewolf stalk closer. What had killed the laughter? Automatically, Tom tried to think what he had done to anger him, but came up blank. Giving his head the briefest of shakes, he lifted his gaze to the wolf again, and tried to focus.

All he could concentrate on properly was that glowing weapon… and the agony it would bring.

The agent's torso was starting to go numb, he'd noticed, but it was peculiarly coupled with a sickening, tingling sensation that moved from one wound to the next. The pain never truly faded, and it was only building… Tom couldn't describe it, even to himself. He just knew it _hurt_… and he was reaching the end of his tolerance.

_No… no you're not._ _You can take it. You have to._ It didn't sound like his own voice in his head, but as he tried to listen to it, it was dulled by the grogginess in his entire mind. He couldn't think clearly, and it was clouding his judgement and senses… driving him more and more into frustration. They'd already hurt him so much, and he hated them passionately for it; he just wanted to hurt them _back_…

_Don't_, his mind hissed pleadingly as he awkwardly tried to straighten his body, eyes never leaving Quentin's approaching form now. He breathed raggedly; angrily and painfully. _Don't do it… you'll pay for it_.

And yet, that knowledge that he would pay for it somehow _fuelled_ the drive. Maybe, just maybe, if he actually did it, the bastard would go through with it. Quentin was wrong… the human body could take punishment, but it hadn't been designed to take _this_ much. Tom was dying, and in the most agonising way possible.

_I have to… I can't take it…_

The realisation brought furious tears to his eyes again, and even as he set his aching jaw, his mind silenced. His thoughts stopped arguing against one another; the voices quieted and left him alone.

He was alone… and he had to _do_ something.

As Quentin came even closer, looking Tom's body over to see where to strike next, the bound American tensed, even through the discomfort. The distance was closed once again… and then Tom lashed out.

One of his legs shot up and out, sending a blazing arc of pain right up and through his body, all the way to his head like lightning. The dirty boot slammed into Quentin roughly, almost knocking him back with a heavy grunt and grimace.

But instead of allowing his balance to fail, the werewolf grabbed Tom's leg by the ankle, gripping tightly. His growl thundered through the room, and his eyes were aflame with blue fury. His grip tightened again, tearing a gasp out of the agent no matter how hard he fought against it. His gritted his teeth, waiting for something to happen, looking to Quentin with anguished eyes. He watched his tormentor, struggling to keep the outline of the other 'man's' body from blurring so badly.

"You stupid son of a bitch…" the lycanthrope grumbled fiercely, his canines tipped dangerously.

_Here it comes._ Tom felt a cold chill of readiness race up his spine, and he tensed again, trying to ignore how much it hurt to be gripped the way he was. It was getting too difficult to ignore it all…

Quentin struck, but not in a killing blow, as Tom had perhaps hoped he might. Before he'd even managed to follow the aim of the strike with his eyes, he was trying to tear his leg from the lycanthrope's grip, his cry ripping out of him loudly and roughly enough to make his entire throat ache. Voice breaking, Tom dropped his head down and to the side, the awkward angle allowing him a strange view of the damage Quentin had done in revenge for the kick. Even with tears blurring his vision, he could see his gripped leg… and the bar pierced clean _through_ it. The glowing end had stabbed straight through his left leg below the knee, searing the skin and scraping bone on the way. The protected grip of the bar was angled up into the air on the other side of the wound. Quentin dropped the leg, leaving the bar in.

With an undeniably pathetic whimper of a noise, Tom slumped, struggling to keep the red-hot tip of the bar from his other leg, leaving him positioned awkwardly where he had been tied, half-slumped and tensed at the same time, despite the apparent impossibility of such a posture. He was concentrating — as difficult as that was with all the injuries and their effects taking their toll on him — on the dangerous weapon pierced through him when Quentin's left hand grabbed his hair at the right side of his head. The werewolf's arm completely blocked the bar from view, and Tom gasped again, feeling the painful lump in his throat.

_You idiot_. His mind had awakened again, chiding him wearily from within. _You've made it worse… you've only made it worse._

The blunt reality of the situation weakened Tom's resolve even more, and even though he tried to fight them, he felt the tears in his eyes breaking through. He closed them tightly as a last-ditch attempt to keep from showing them, but the sadistically tight grip in his hair and the impalement of his leg were quickly tearing down the walls of bravado.

_You're breaking…_

Again, it didn't sound like his voice… and that only made it worse. Even with his eyes closed, a choked sob sounded in the excruciating silence, coursing up Tom's dry throat to escape his mouth pitifully.

"This will get _worse_," Quentin's voice snarled down his left ear, the words harsh like a blade, cutting into Tom's brain. He could only stand there, in agony, with those first few tears struggling free. "_So_ much worse…" Feeling the wolf's hot breath course over the side of his face and neck made the spy shudder… in fear. Real, crippling fear that swarmed through him and took hold of his heart, wrapping around it coldly; so tightly he thought it might stop beating. "And what you just did," Quentin pressed on, exaggerating each word sharply down the agent's ear, "will keep those who come after me from holding back."

To think that they had been holding back… Tom wasn't sure how to feel. He'd known when Melody had been hitting him that she could have clean broken his jaw with each punch, but knowing that the torture could have been — and now would be — worse… it was almost enough to make him _ask_ Quentin to kill him. He felt empty, and lost, and when Quentin pulled his head back to look fiercely into Tom's eyes, he couldn't help but tremble.

… _You've broken…_

Tom's eyes closed, and he fought back another sob at the sound of the voice in his head, and what it said to him sadly. The tears that had escaped were soon followed by others, running down his blood-streaked and dirty face towards his bruised jaw.

"They'll tear you apart… the mind, and then the body." Quentin's words sounded vacant, but the edge was like a vicious blade that ripped into Tom. The werewolf dropped his head, letting it fall heavily. Tom didn't fight it.

When the bar was grabbed and ripped from his leg, Tom's cry was weaker than before, and yet still loud. The sob that seemed to carry through it echoed through the room, and when he slumped back against the pillar, he looked up fleetingly to Quentin. The blonde wolf stood before him, staring at him almost in disappointment now.

The subtle pleading in the spy's exhausted frame wasn't ignored for long, and after a few minutes of simply standing there, Quentin moved bodily, and swung the bar. It connected heavily with the right side of Tom's head, and before he'd even been able to react audibly, he was unconscious once more.

_**To Be Continued…**_


End file.
